

































4 


» 


























































* 












































MISS BEATRICE HARRADEN. 


■'/ 




THE 


■e 

JMBRELLA MENDER 


BY 


BEATRICE HARRADEN, 

AUTHOR OF 


3HIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGH7 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


* 1 ( 1 - 

'g’s 

es 


THE SUNNYSIDE SERIES, No. 81.- Issued Quarterly. July, 1894. $1.00 per year, 
utered at New York Post-Office as second class fatter. Copyright, 1890, by J. S. OgUvia. 


New York : 

OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

57 Rose Street. 



THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 


It was a winter’s evening. The clock of 
St. Martin-le-Grand was striking six as Mr. 
Coriolanus Crocker, the umbrella-mender, rose 
from his bench, laid aside his work,' and shut 
up his shop. He then retired into the little 
inner room, made some tea, contrived a sand- 
wich, and settled himself down to an evening’s 
enjoyment with his books. In a few minutes 
he was lost in the dear delights of Grote’s 
“Greece”; for Mr. Crocker was a scholar, and 
looked such, even when he was repairing um- 
brellas. One might have expected him at any 
given minute to put away his work and deliver 
a lecture on some abstruse subject — perhaps on 
the political aspects of the reign of Thothmes 
the Third, or on the potentialities of the Differ- 


IO 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


ential Calculus. One might have expected 
this in vain, since Mr. Crocker was as sparing 
of his words as most rich people are of their 
money. He was short and shrivelled, and not 
unlike a thin umbrella — a threadbare, shabbily- 
genteel umbrella, with an uncompromising 
handle, and a long-drawn piece of elastic, and 
an ancient button, and a well-worn stick which 
wanted retipping. 

Mr. Crocker had a small face provided with 
small piercing eyes. His hair was brown and 
scanty. He had a habit of combing back this 
scanty hair with his thin hand when he was 
engaged in contemplating an invalid umbrella, 
and wondering whether it was worth a new 
stick, or a new handle, or a new frame, or a 
new silk or alpaca covering. 

A piece of paper pasted on Mr. Crocker’s 
window announced that no customers were 
wanted after six o’clock, and the neighbors had 
learned that it was no light matter to disturb 
the umbrella-mender when once the shutters of 
the little shop had been put up. He. was thus 
usually enabled to enjoy Grote’s “ Greece ” 
without any possible fear of business annoy- 
ances. 


The Umbrella- Mender . 


1 1 


But this evening, just as he was finishing an 
account of the battle of Salamis, there came a 
loud ring at the shop-bell. Mr. Crocker did 
not pay the slightest active attention to this 
appeal, but there was no doubt that he was 
conscious of the disturbance, for he looked up 
from his book, cast a few indignant glances 
towards the shop-door, and then poured him- 
self out another cup of tea, and returned to 
Grote and Greece. The bell rang again — this 
time louder and more impatiently. Mr. Cori- 
olanus Crocker read on quietly. But when 
the bell pealed a third time, he darted into the 
shop, opened the door hurriedly, and said : 

“I won’t have any customers after six 
o’clock. There’s another umbrella-mender at 
the top of the road. Go to him, and if he 
won’t do your work, go to the devil, for all I 
care ! ” 

“ I am inclined to think I have arrived at 
the destination you mention,” said the ringer 
of the bell. “Allow me, however, to assure 
you that I am not a customer, and have not 
come to see you about anything so uninterest- 
ing as umbrellas. Probably you do not realize 
that it is snowing. I can understand that, for 


12 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


you are standing out of the snow, and I am 
standing in the snow. Thank you, I will step 
in and tell you my business.” 

Mr. Crocker raised the lamp to the stran- 
ger’s face. He looked about thirty years of 
age, and had the appearance of being an unsuc- 
cessful artist. 

“ I don’t know you,” said Mr. Crocker, put- 
ting the lamp on the counter. “ Please to tell 
me your business and then go ; for my time is 
precious, and I don’t care to waste it on 
strangers. 1 ’ 

“ I will be brief,” answered the stranger, 
taking a ring from his pocket. “This is your 
son’s ring. You recognize it? Well, then, he 
is dying, and wishes to see you before he says 
farewell to this world. You’ll excuse me, but 
I think we have not much time to lose. He 
was well on the road when I left him.” 

“ My son dying,” murmured the umbrella- 
mender,' as though to himself, “and dying he 
turns to me. I am glad of that.” . 

“ I am ready,” he said to the artist. He 
took his hat from the peg, and passed out of 
the shop together with the stranger. 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


?3 


“ You are my son’s friend, no doubt?” he 
asked. 

“ No,” replied the other, curtly. “ I’m low 
enough, but I have not sunk to that degrada- 
tion yet.” 

“Do you refer- to his personal character or 
to his father’s profession ?” asked the umbrella- 
mender, fiercely. 

“ I’ve nothing against his father’s profes- 
sion,” answered the stranger. “ For my part, 
I should think it is much better fun having 
umbrellas to mend than having no pictures to 
paint. You get bread and cheese on the one, 
but you starve on the other. Then you die 
and go to hell, and not a soul cares.” 

Then there was silence between them, and 
the snow fell fast and thick. 

“I suppose you loved your son once?” the 
stranger said, after a pause. 

“ I have always loved my son,” the umbrella- 
mender answered. 

“ I wonder he did not turn out a better man, 
if he had some one to care for him. That 
ought to make such a difference to a fellow,” 
said the stranger, somewhat sadly. 


14 


The Umbrella- Mender* 


“ You are hard on the dying,” said the 
umbrella-mender. 

“ I hate your son ! ” muttered the stranger. 
“ I hate him. He has come between me and 
all my chances of success and happiness. 
And when he is dead I shall have fco go after 
him, for it was my hand that struck him down.” 

Mr. Crocker started back. 

“Your hand?” he cried. “And you dare 
to tell me this ! ” 

“Why not?” said the other, coolly. “I 
don’t value my life at a brass farthing. We’ve 
got to die, ajid it really does not matter much 
whether we die on the gallows or on a feather 
bed. We have only a few steps to go now. 
We cross the road and turn down that narrow 
street opposite. I beg of you to take my arm, 
sir ; the roads are slippery, and you may fall.” 

The umbrella-mender shook off the stranger’s 
touch. 

“ Don’t touch me,” he said, with a shudder. 

“ I can understand you are naturally annoyed 
with me,” replied the other. “It would be 
too absurd to suppose that a man would be 
friends with a stranger who has murdered his 
son. Follow me now.” 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


15 


They had arrived at a wretchedly poor-look- 
ing house. The door was opened by a little 
girl, who slunk away immediately. They 
groped their way up some rickety stairs, and 
went into a darkened room. The artist struck 
a match and lit a candle, and held.it over the 
bed. 

“Your son is still alive,” he whispered to 
the umbrella-mender. “ I am glad we are not 
too late. I feared we should just miss him.” 
Then he closed the door gently, leaving the 
umbrella-mender bending over his son. 

“ Marius !” the father whispered, as he took 
his son’s hand and kissed it tenderly. “ Marius, 
you know me ? ” 

The dying man looked up. 

“ Dad ! ” he murmured, “ I’ve not been 
much of a credit to you. Poor dad ! and you 
hoped for so much from me. Well, it’s too 
late now. But just kneel down, dad, and let 
my head rest on your arm. Just like that.” 

And he died, with a peaceful smile on his 
face. He had been nothing but a sorrow to 
his father, nothing but a shame. His short 
life had been crowded with crimes of every 
description, except murder. Pie did not 


i6 


The Umbrella-Mender . 


understand anything about affection, or grati- 
tude, or honor. But all the same, he died 
with a peaceful smile on his face, his head rest- 
ing, childlike, on his father’s arm. 

Half an hour afterwards the artist came 
back into the room and found the umbrella- 
mender kneeling by the bedside. The candle 
had burned very low, and the fire sent forth 
but a feeble flicker. It was bitterly cold. 

The artist spoke gently to the umbrella- 
mender. 

“ I see your son is dead,” he said, “ and of 
course I hold myself responsible for his death, 
and am prepared to pay any penalty. But 
meanwhile you are shivering with cold. Let 
me persuade you to come nearer to the fire- 
place, and to wrap yourself in this rug until I 
have succeeded in rekindling the fire. The 
snow is still falling fast, and the ground is cov- 
ered with a white garment. But it won’t long 
remain white — that’s the pity of it. Do not 
you think so ? ” 

The umbrella-mender withdrew his arm from 
beneath his son’s head, and suffered the stran- 
ger to lead him to the fireside and help him 
into an easy-chair. There was a look of in- 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


17 


tense pain on the umbrella-mender’s face. He 
watched his son’s murderer kneel down and 
attend to the fire ; he watched every bit of 
stick put on to it, and once he stooped for- 
ward and picked up a bit which had fallen from 
the bundle, and he himself threw it into the 
fire. But the fire would not draw, and so the 
stranger fetched a newspaper, and he and the 
umbrella-mender held it before the grate, until 
their patience and perseverance were rewarded 
by success. 

“ It would be no trouble for me to make you 
some coffee,” said the stranger. “ I was always 
famous for my coffee. Y our son used to praise 
it.” 

“ Thank you,” said the umbrella-mender, 
half dreamily. “ I should like some. I always 
enjoy a good cup of coffee. One does not 
often get it good in England.” 

“ I suppose you don’t object to my smoking 
here?” asked the stranger. “ If you think it is 
not quite reverent, just tell me so, and I shall 
understand.” 

“ Smoke by all means,” replied the umbrella- 
mender, watching the young man not unkindly. 
The bright light of the fire fell full on his hand- 


1 8 The Umbrella-Mender. 

some face ; there was no expression of vicious- 
ness or wickedness, but a sort of resigned, dull, 
deadened sadness, as though the young man 
had honestly tried to make a good thing of 
life, and all the world had been against him. 

“ Perhaps you will allow me to offerfyou a 
cigarette,” suggested the stranger. “Your son 
gave me these cigarettes a fortnight ago. 
They are not strong. Try them.” 

“Thank you,” said the umbrella-mender, 
“ but I do not smoke now.” 

The stranger nodded pleasantly and put the 
cigarettes back on the mantel-shelf. He 
moved about very quietly preparing the coffee, 
and in a few minutes the comforting, cheering 
fragrance filled the room. The umbrella- 
mender lifted the cup to his lips and drank 
long and deep. 

“That was very refreshing,” he said to the 
stranger, who had settled himself down by the 
fire, with his pipe in his mouth and the coffee 
on the fender. “You certainly can make a 
good cup of coffee.” Suddenly he turned 
round and said quickly “ It has just struck 
me that you may have added poison to that 
coffee. I do not really care whether you have 


The U mbrella-Mender. 


19 


done this, but I should much like to know. It 
would be quite natural for you to wish to 
poison me, since I am probably the only person 
who knows that you have murdered my son. 
I should not be in the least surprised or angry, 
so I beg of you to tell me the truth.” 

He put his hand on the young man’s arm, 
almost caressingly. 

“The idea never even entered my head, sir,” 
answered the young man. “You might guess 
that, because I am drinking from the same 
coffee-pot. I beg of you not to think badly 
of me.” 

“ But you have murdered my son,” said the 
umbrella-mender. “ He lies there struck down 
by your hand — at least, so you tell me. And 
I see no reason why you should invent such a 
story — unless, perhaps, you’re mad. By the 
way, I have not the pleasure of knowing your 
name.” 

“ My name is Bernard Dene,” answered the 
stranger, taking his tobacco-pouch from his 
pocket and refilling his pipe. “ At least, that 
is what I choose to call myself. I thought 
that was a good name for an artist, but it never 
brought luck to me. It is hard when you have 


20 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


the power and the wish to work, and you can- 
not get anything to do. But I expect you do 
not know what that means : you are not un- 
lucky.” 

“Not particularly so,” said the umbrella- 
mender, sipping his coffee. “Now I wish you 
would oblige me by telling me something 
about yourself. And I should very much like 
to know why you have killed my son.” 

Then the young man drew closer to the old 
man, and told him about himself. He had had 
no chances in life, and if there were a God' of 
heaven and earth, as some people seemed to 
think, that God of heaven aud earth had a 
strange way of taking care of those who needed 
help and hope and encouragement. No one 
had ever cared for him' until he met a sweet 
woman whom he married. And she had 
died in giving birth to his little girl. That 
was five years ago. He had never known his 
father ; and as for his mother, it was very little 
she had troubled herself about him. Noth- 
ing had ever prospered with him — neither art 
nor love nor friendship. Even his little girl 
did not love him; she had always seemed 
frightened of him — why, he could not guess. 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


2 


Still he had tried to make the best he could of 
life, until Marius Crocker came across his path. 
The end of it was that Marius Crocker had be- 
trayed the woman whom Bernard Dene loved, 
and for whom he was trying to work, hoping 
that he might at last conquer failure, and win 
happiness and peace. The man who had rob- 
bed him of this last hope deserved to die. He 
had told him that he would kill him, and Marius 
Crocker had jeered at him. Well, he would 
not jeer any more now. “ That is my story, 
sir,” he cried, excitedly. “You see, I was 
obliged to kill your son. Forgive me, sir, — I 
say it with all due deference to you, — but the 
world is better without him. But I fear I have 
hurt your feelings. I am very sorry.” 

The umbrella-mender stirred restlessly in his 
chair. 

“ No, you have not hurt my feelings,” he 
murmured, half to himself, “ for Marius was 
never a son to me. In fact, I never knew 
what a son’s love meant. I have only read of 
such love. But his life was different from 
yours : he had every care, every thought be- 
stowed on him. But I feel sure that nothing 
could ever have made him a good man, He 


22 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


had not the genius for being good, just as I 
have not the genius for painting. He broke 
his mother’s heart — and she died. He broke 
my heart — but you see I live on. Whilst I 
had money Marius robbed me. So I became 
poor, knowing that this was my one chance of 
peace. When he realized that I had no more 
money to give, he left me alone, and that was 
the only merciful thing he ever did for me. 
But with all this I loved him. It is a way we 
have, you know, of loving those who are a life’s 
sorrow, a life’s anxiety to us.” 

He paused a moment, and then drew nearer 
to the young man. 

“ And because I loved him, and because you 
killed him, you must die,” he said, slowly. 
“Not that I see there is any advantage in your 
death : you, by your death, cannot bring him 
back to life again, even if I wished him to 
come back to life again. And I do not wish 
this. He lies there, at least powerless to do 
evil, and that is a gain for the world, and for 
him too. But all the same, you must die, for 
several reasons : first of all, for your own sake ; 
and, secondly, for my wife’s sake ; and, thirdly, 
for your child’s sake. You probably under- 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


23 


stand the first and the third reasons ; and as for 
the second, it is briefly this : women are revenge* 
ful. I cannot hope that my wife’s soul will 
greet my soul in perfect love if our son Marius 
is unavenged. The joy of our souls’ meeting 
will thus be marred, just because, to gratify 
my own earthly wish, I shall have spared you. 
You see plainly you must die. But I am 
sorry — yes, I am very sorry. You are a fine 
young fellow, and I could have loved you.” 

Bernard Dene took his pipe from his mouth 
and bent forward eagerly. 

“ Thank you,” he said ; “ it was good of you 
to say that. I shall never forget that. I sup- 
pose you would not shake hands with me — 
would you ? ” 

“ By all means,” answered the umbrella- 
mender, warmly ; and he held out his hand, 
which Bernard Dene grasped firmly. “ I am 
pleased to have made your acquaintance. You 
seem to be a gallant young man, and you must 
not lose heart about yourself. Ah, but I for- 
got that you had not long to live. I suppose 
you will kill yourself to-night ?” 

“Yes; but not for an hour or so,” said the 
artist, rising. “ I should like first to show you 


24 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


some of my paintings — such as they are. I 
made a portrait of him. You may be inter- 
ested in that. If it pleases you, I trust you 
will accept it as a little remembrance of him 
and me. What a terrible night! It is still 
snowing hard. I do not know how you will 
manage about getting home. It was not fair 
to bring you out. Perhaps it will be better 
for you to remain here. I can easily make up 
a bed for you ; or you could have mine. I 
shall not need mine, you know.” 

“ Thank you,” said the umbrella-mender ; 
“ but I think I will go home when it leaves 
off snowing.” 

At that moment his eye detected an umbrella 
resting against a window. He rose from his 
chair by the lire, and examined the umbrella. 

“ It wants mending,” he said. “The frame- 
work is strong, but it ought to be re-covered. 
If you go in for usefulness, and not merely for 
elegance, I should recommend alpaca. I will 
take it home with me, and you must call for it 
at your own convenience. I shall make no 
charge. Ah — I beg your pardon — I had for- 
gotten. You will not require it — will you?” 

“ Probably not,” said the artist, smiling. 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


25 


“There is the portrait of your son. It is the 
best painting I have ever done. Let us take 
it to the bedside, and then you will see what 
an excellent likeness it is.” 

So these two men stood together by the bed- 
side of Marius Crocker, now looking at his 
features fixed in death, and now looking at the 
portrait, which seemed to be a living thing. 
There was life in those eyes, there was life in 
every thread of hair, there was life in every 
vein. 

The umbrella-mender turned away with a 
nervous laugh from the portrait. 

“ Put it in the dark,” he said. “ Put it 
where I cannot see it.” 

Bernard Dene placed it with its face towards 
the wall. 

“That laugh was the laugh of a madman,” 
he said, half aloud. “ I thought from the first 
you were mad, but now I am sure of it.” 

The umbrella-mender laughed again quietly. 
He warmed his hands by the fire. 

“Do you mind burning that portrait?” he 
asked, suddenly. “The very thought of it 
troubles me. I insist on its being burnt at 
once. It is not agreeable of you to hesitate. 


26 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


It cannot possibly matter to you, as you are 
going to die so soon. And it matters very 
much to me.” 

Pie darted forward and seized the picture 
with both hands, and would have carried it at 
once to the fire, but the artist, roused to anger, 
roughly prevented him, and for a moment the 
two men struggled desperately. 

Neither the one nor the other conquered ; ' 
for suddenly something fell from the bed yon- 
der, and the artist looked at the umbrella- 
mender, and the umbrella-mender looked at 
the artist, and they stood there together, par- 
alyzed with fear, holding the picture between 
them ; and the candle gave a feeble flicker and 
went out, and the tick of the clock during that 
suspense seemed to have become louder and 
more painfully regular. 

Then the artist spoke in a whisper. 

“ What was that?” he asked. “ Perhaps he 
is not dead after all. We will speak to him. 
You call his name. Lean on my arm, for you 
are trembling.” 

‘‘And you are trembling too,” whispered 
the umbrella-mender. “ Let me beseech you 
to be quite calm. I will speak to him. Ma- 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


27 


rius ! Marius!” he said, in an awed tone of 
voice. 

But there was no answer. The artist put 
the portrait in the umbrella-mender’s hands, 
and struck a match, and lit another bit of 
candle, and then peered around the bed. A 
book had fallen from the bed. Bernard Dene 
picked it up and showed it to the umbrella- 
mender. He smiled sorrowfully as he turned 
over the leaves and looked at the simple illus- 
trations. 

“ I remember now,” he said, quietly.. “ This is 
my little girl’s book. He was fond of my little 
girl. That was the one good thing about him. 
He played with her, and read to her, and talked 
to her, and I do believe he was as tender as 
any mother with her. But even for this I 
hated him, for she loved him better than she 
loves me. I always knew there was no place 
for me in this world. He bought her this 
book. He probably cheated some one out of 
the money, and then came home and gave her 
pleasure. That was his way of doing things. 
By the way, will you take care of my little 
girl when I’m gone ? Her name is Bernard- 
ine. You cannot but love her.” 


28 


The Umbrella-M ender. 


“ I was going to propose that to you,” said 
the jumbrella-m ender, kindly. “ I should like 
to have her, and I think I have changed my 
mind about that portrait. I should much like 
to have it.” 

“ I am glad of that,” answered the artist, 
warmly. “ I do not care about my life, but I 
am jealous for the life of my pictures. I leave 
them all to you. They will help to pay you 
for Bernardine. The only one I do not wish 
you to sell is the portrait of your son. You 
must hang that in your umbrella-shop. Now 
I will go and fetch my little girl, and then you 
must go home. I am sure you will trust me 
to kill myself. I flatter myself that I have 
never broken my word to any one. I was 
born a gentleman, and I will die a gentleman. 
At least I can do that.” 

The umbrella-mender held out his hand. 

“ I trust you implicitly,” he said. “ I will 
call in to-morrow morning, and look kindly 
and regretfully at you. I shall always think 
kindly of you, and I hope you will do the same 
of me. I only wish that we had met under 
happier circumstances. But unfortunately we 
have no choice in these matters — no choice. 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


2 $ 


I should tell you, though, that I think you are 
undoubtedly mad. I flatter myself that I am 
an excellent judge of character. I should not 
make this remark about you, but that you ven- 
tured to make it about me ; and as I am not 
offended, there is no reason why you should be 
offended. After all, you know, madness is' 
only a relative term, like vice and virtue, and 
everything else. For all we know, that which 
we call courage here may be called cowardice 
in the planet Venus. And similarly, those who 
are called mad here may be called sane there. 
Now fetch your little girl, and we will leave 
you alone to die.” 

The artist closed the door quietly after him, 
and the umbrella-mender, finding himself alone, 
stood by the bed where his son lay dead, with 
that peaceful smile on his face. 

“ I do not know of what you are thinking, 
Marius,” he whispered, as he put his hand on 
that cold forehead, “but, for my own part, I 
am glad you should smile happily. If you, 
who have done so much evil, have nothing to 
fear in death, then we, who have done less evil, 
Marius — we can have nothing to fear. Fare- 
well, my son ; I do not grieve for you now. 


30 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


But whilst you lived, my whole life was one 
great grief for you. You bowed my head — 
you broke my heart. But that only made me 
love you the more. Farewell, Marius, my 
son.” 

He kissed the cold forehead, and, shivering, 
passed over to the fireside, and once more ex- 
amined the umbrella which he was going to 
take home to mend. He combed his scanty 
brown hair with his thin hand, as was his wont 
when engaged in professional contemplation. 

“Yes,” he murmured, “this umbrella has a 
good strong framework. Marius never had a 
strong moral framework. I think human 
beings are very like umbrellas — very like um- 
brellas. But they do not last so well, and I 
do not think they ever can be repaired — they 
can only be patched up for a time.” 

Fie was still holding the umbrella in his 
hand, when Bernard Dene came into the room 
carrying a little, fair-haired girl wrapped in a 
gray shawl. She was crying, and looked terri- 
fied. 

“This is Bernardine,” the artist said. And 
then he added almost pathetically : “ She al- 
ways cries when she is with me. She is fright- 


The Umbrella- Mender. 3i 

ened of me ; but she loved him yonder. Hush, 
child ! you must not cry. You will wake him. 
He is tired, and he wants to sleep. You may 
kiss him — on the forehead.” 

“ Oh, how cold ! ” she said, shrinking back, 
when her lips met the cold forehead. 

“Yes, Bemardine,” her father said, fondling 
her fair hair. But it is snowing, you know. 
Every one is cold when it is snowing.” 

“ Put me down,” she begged ; “ I don’t want 
to be with you. Let me go to the little old 
gentleman.” 

“ She never loved me,” murmured the artist ; 
“it was every one else but me.” 

And he turned away and wept his whole 
heart out, whilst the umbrella-mender was 
holding the child in his arms, talking to her as 
though he had known and loved her all her 
life — he who had never before held a child in 
his arms, except Marius yonder. 

“Will you come home with me, little one ?” 
he asked, in a voice so gentle that Bernard 
Dene ceased weeping and listened to it. 

“ Yes,” she answered, smiling at him, and 
her fair head rested on his shoulder. 


32 


The Umbrella-Mender . 


“ Then say ‘ good-by ’ to your father,” he 
said, “and we will go home at once.” 

“Good-by, dad,” she said, carelessly. It 
was nothing to her to part from him. 

“You’ll not see me again, Bernardine,” he 
said, sadly. 

“Shan’t I?” she asked. “Do you know, 
dad, if he wasn’t so cold I should kiss him 
again ? I think I’d like to.” 

So they held her over him, and she kissed 
him and put her little arms around his neck. 
Then they put his last gift-book in her hand, 
and the umbrella-mender turned to the artist : 

“ I am sorry to leave you,” he said, kindly ; 
“ but the hour has now come, and we must <ro 
our own ways. You have a long way to go. 
Remember, I trust you implicitly. Farewell. 
I shall see you to-morrow — not as you are now, 
it is true. I shall look upon what you were ; 
and believe me, young man, I shall grieve for 
you. Farewell, Bernard Dene. Even failure 
is only a relative term, you know. And that 
which the world calls failure may have some 
better and nobler name in another planet. 
Therefore do not lose heart about yourself.” 

The artist bowed his head ; his right hand 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


33 


rested on the child’s head, his left hand on the 
umbrella-mender’s shoulder. 

“You have spoken very kindly to me,” he 
said. “ If there be a God, I trust that God 
may bless you and make your latter days 
happy and peaceful. As for me, be assured 
that I shall not break my word to you. I 
leave my child and my pictures to you. Shall 
I see you home ? The snow lies thick on the 
ground, and you do not know the way very 
well, and it is bitterly cold. Put on my over- 
coat. I shall not want it, for I shall not go 
out again unless you would like me to see you 
home.” 

“ Do not trouble to do that,” said the um- 
brella-mender. “ Bernardine and I will easily 
find our way. And many thanks for the offer 
of the coat. I should be grateful for it. Do 
not be anxious about Bernardine. I will take 
every care of her. And now, good-night.” 

The artist followed them down the creaking 
stairs and opened the door for them to pass 
out. He closed the door hastily after them. 
There were a few men standing about, and 
some boys were snowballing each - other and 
laughing lustily, and one of them, seeing the 


34 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


umbrella-mender, prepared a huge missile, and 
was just about to aim it at his head when a 
great coarse-looking woman prevented him. 

“Hold hard!” she cried, with an oath. 
“ It’s the mad painter’s little daughter. Snow- 
ball me,' not she.” 

Bernardine clung closer to the umbrella- 
mender. 

“That’s what they always call him,” she 
whispered, dreamily — “ mad, mad, — what can 
it mean ? ” 

But before he could answer her she had 
fallen into a gentle sleep ; and thus he bore 
her along the snow-covered streets, careful of 
every step he took, lest perchance he might 
slip and rouse her from her slumbers. Her 
little golden head rested against his face, and 
her little hands tightly clasped his neck, and 
he loved to feel her touch, remembering that 
she, and she alone, had called forth what p-ood 

o 

there was in his son’s evil nature. The world 
might call him bad and heartless, for such he 
had proved himself to be to the world ; but 
this child said he was kind and good, for such 
he had shown himself to be to her. It was 
something in his favor that he had won this 


The U mbrella-M wider. 


35 


child’s love : maybe it would go all the better 
with him hereafter because her lips had 
touched his cold forehead. 

So the umbrella-mender carried her to the 
umbrella-shop. He laid her tenderly on the 
counter, well wrapped in the warm gray shawl. 
He lit the lamp, and made up the fire in the 
little inner room, and then, to the best of his 
ability, improvised a cosy bed, where he placed 
her, just as she was. Then he knelt by her 
and guarded her for a while, smiling con- 
tentedly when he saw her smiling in her sleep. 
After an hour or so he left her, and carefully 
shading the lamp from her eyes, he settled 
down to read a few pages of Grote’s “ Greece,” 
in which he had been engaged when he was 
summoned away to his son’s death-bed. He 
tried to collect his thoughts and concentrate 
them on the subject, which had a great inter- 
est for him ; but he found himself thinking 
now of the artist, now of his son, and he found 
his eyes wandering away from the pages of 
Grote’s history to the spot yonder where the 
child was sleeping and smiling, and holding 
tightly in her hands Marius Crocker’s last gift- 
book. 


36 


The Umbrella- Mender. 


“What will she prove?” he said aloud. 
“ Her father is undoubtedly mad. It is a curi- 
ous sensation being with a madman. My 
heart stood still within me when we were 
struggling for that picture. Fancy him being 
quite willing to kill himself because he had 
murdered Marius I- If he had not been mad 
he would have sent me after Marius, instead 
of choosing to go himself. Well, he is a fine 
young fellow, and it is a pity he should die.” 

Then he laughed softly. 

“ Of course he was mad — his eyes told me 
that. Still, I am glad to have made his ac- 
quaintance. I shall always think of him with 
pleasure. I wonder how he will get on in the 
next planet ! I trust he will be happy and 
successful.” 

And meanwhile the artist, alone with the 
dead man, wrote out his will. It was briefly 
this : 

“To Coriolanus Crocker, of 30 Stone 
Street, umbrella-mender and madman, I leave 
my little girl Bernardine and all my pictures 
signed with my name. Any of my pictures, 
except the portrait of Marius Crocker, whom 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


37 


I have killed, may be sold by Coriolanus 
Crocker, Marius Crocker’s father. 

“ Bernard Dene. 

"24 th January 1878.” 

“ Some one ought to witness this,” he said 
to himself, rising up with the pen in his hand. 
His eyes fell on his silent companion. “To 
be sure !” he cried. “ A capital idea ! Marius 
himself shall witness my last will and testa- 
ment.” 

He took the cold hand in his own, and put 
the pen between the thumb and the first finger, 
and made it trace out the signature, “ Marius 
Crocker , dead man .” 

He smiled and rubbed his hands together, 
as though he were quite delighted with him- 
self. 

“Now I must kill myself,” he said, as he 
dried the paper before the fire. “ And I think 
that is about all. Fancy that madman trusting 
me to kill myself! No sane man would have 
done such a thing. I saw from the beginning 
that he was mad. There was no mistaking the 
look in his eyes.” 

Suddenly he became sad and pensive. 


38 


The Umbrella-Mender. 


‘‘But the umbrella- mender spoke very- 
kindly to me,” he murmured to himself, “and 
he did not once reproach me for having killed 
Marius. In fact he behaved like a gentleman. 
And he said something about failure, which 
struck me as being comforting. Well, I trust 
that his latter days may be happy and peace- 
ful. That is what we want — peace. I have 
never known peace there was always confu- 
sion and tumult in my brain. Perhaps death 
brings peace. I shall soon find out about 
that.” 

The people of the house heard the report of 
a pistol. They rushed up to the artist’s room, 
expecting to have to break open the door. 
But it was not even closed against them ; so 
they passed through without delay, and found 
the artist fallen on the ground. They raised 
his head gently. 

“ I killed that man yonder,” he whispered. 
“Let that be clearly understood. You did 
not know the umbrella-mender, did you ? He 
is undoubtedly— — ” 

At that moment the artist died. 


THE DEAD HEART. 


On the desolate, lonely shore of the doomed 
Dead Sea, many, many years ago, there stood, 
under a solitary sycamore tree, a little, hum- 
ble cottage. In all the wide world, you could 
not have found so dreary and silent a spot as 
that. Day after day, the fiery sun of the East 
set red and lurid in the black, sluggish waves ; 
moon after moon arose in glory, and waned in 
darkness, yet no living thing ever greeted the 
eyes of the dwellers in the lonely cot. Far 
away in the distance stretched the hot sands of 
the yellow desert, where no tree or shrub ever 
grew, save the one tall sycamore that sighed 
mournfully in the night wind. In front could 
only be seen the dull, motionless expanse of 
water, on whose black surface could still be 
read the mighty curse of God. 

One night, when the rain was heavily fall- 
ing, and the ghastly lightning blazed over the 


40 


The Dead Heart . 


sea, a gay young English traveler rode alone 
through the driving tempest. Coal-black was 
his steed, but blacker still was the glossy hair, 
and bright, proud eye of his rider. Through 
the wild storm they plunged, while the mettled 
charger neighed and reared madly as the forked 
fire of heaven shot across his blinded eyes. 

“Courage, Luah ! courage, good friend!” 
said the young man, gayly. “ Tis said some- 
one lives on the shore of the sea, and per- 
chance thou and thy master may yet find shelter 
from the pitiless storm. Ha ! what have we 
here ? ” 

As he spoke, his keen eye discerned, stand- 
ing with outstretched arms before him, the 
white-robed figure of either a woman or an 
angel. Like a golden cloud, her long hair fell 
around her, and her fair young face shone from 
it, like a pearl in a golden setting. 

“ I have lost my way in the desert,” she said, 
in a voice sweeter to his ear thaii the Singing 
Fountain of Arabia. “ Take me up, and I will 
guide you to my home under the sycamore 
tree.” 

“ By Jove ! I have caught a bird of para- 
dise,” thought the gay Englishman, as he stooped 
down, and, passing one arm around her small 


The Dead Heart. 


4 * 


waist, swung her lightly before him in the saddle. 
'‘And do you live here, my flower of the 
desert ? ” he asked, aloud. 

“Yes; down by the sea, where the syca- 
more waves,” she answered, in her clear, musi- 
cal voice. 

“ And your name, pretty one ? ” 

“ I am Cara, the white lily of the Dead Sea.” 

“ A sweet name, and. just suited to your 
golden hair and b^e eyes, Have you always 
lived here.” 

“ No ; long ago I sang among the green val- 
leys of Circassia ; and when they took me 
away to be sold, I fled here to dwell. But see 
how the rain falls, and your cloak is all wet 
through. Spur your horse until we reach my 
home.” 

“ Hasten, Luah, hasten,” said the young man, 
urging his horse forward; “rest is at hand lor 
thee and me.” 

“ Why do you call your horse Luah?” asked 
Cara. 

“After a ‘ ladye faire in merrie England,’” 
he answered, gayly ; “ one whose lips are as 
red, and whose eyes are as bright as your own, 
my sweet Cara.” 

“ Does she love you?” 


42 


The Dead Heart. 


“Why, yes, I rather think so,” said he, laugh- 
ing ; “ at least she has told me so many a 
time.” 

“ And you love her ? ” 

“Well, I cannot say positively. I ought to, 
though, I suppose. She is my bride.” 

“Your bride ! What is that ?” 

He laughed loudly. 

“ Why, what a sweet little piece of simplic- 
ity you are. So you don’t know what a bride 
is, my little white dove ; but how should you, 
here in this desert ? Well, it would be a pity 
to tell you, bright Cara. Were I not wedded 
already, I might let you know.” 

“ Will you stay here long ? ” 

“ Perhaps ; while your blue eyes smile on me 
I may ; but when you grow tired of my com- 
pany, I shall bid you adieu, and hasten to the 
gay City of the Sultan.” 

“ I shall never tire of you.” 

“ Delighted to hear it. Then you will live 
with me, and be my love ? ” 

“ No ; one is enough. Will not your far-off 
bride sigh for your coming ? ” 

“I fear so; but she may sigh many a time 
and oft, ere I return again. What light is that 
yonder, fair Cara ? ” 


The Dead Heart. 


43 


“ It is the torch of Aga, lighted by her love, 
to show me the way.” 

“And who is Aga, my lily-flower?” 

“ My old nurse. Hark ! Do you not hear 
the storm wailing through the sycamore ? It 
reminds me of my home in dear, beautiful Cir- 
cassia, where I used to dance in the moonlight, 
under the waving myrtle trees. My life was so 
calm and peaceful then !” 

“By Jove! I should say it was calm and 
peaceful enough yet. I would die of solitude 
here before a month if I were alone like you.” 

“ I never feel lonely. I sit at Aga’s feet, and 
she tells me stories of the bright home of my 
heart, in fair, lovely Circassia.” 

“ Well, by way of a change, you shall sit at 
mine for the future, and I will tell you of the 
gay ladies and lords of England. Do you 
know I am a lord, svyeetest Circassian ?” 

She lifted her soft eyes to the proud, hand- 
some face bending smilingly over her. 

“You look grand and handsome enough for 
a prince,” she said, simply ; ‘ the sultan himself 
is not half so noble-looking as you.” 

“ Whew ! That is decidedly complimentary, 
my dear little candid Cara,” he said, with a 
wicked laugh in his merry black eyes ; “and to 


44 


The Dead Heart. 


compliment in return, what shall I say you 
look like — an angel ? ” 

“ I have seen angels in my dreams. They 
have blue eyes and yellow hair, like me, but I 
am not one. Did you ever see one ? ” 

‘‘Well no — I rather think not. I haven’t 
attained sanctity enough for that yet.” 

“ Long ago,” said Cara, dreamily, “ an old 
man from some far-off northern land, told me 
if I was good I might be an angel when I 
died. That was the reason why I would not 
be sold, but fled here to live. He told me of a 
beautiful land where they all wore white, and 
played on the harp, and had golden crowns on 
their heads. Oh ! it was beautiful ! Aga 
never told me a tale half so lovely. And you 
—you come from that same northern land. 
Have you ever heard of that beautiful place?” 

He felt his dark cheek burn like fire, under 
the gaze of those pure, sinless eyes. 

“Yes, I think so ; but never mind that now,” 
he answered, hurriedly. “ See, we are at your 
home — under the sycamore, as you say — and I 
am completely drenched.” 

“ He leaped off his horse, and held out his 
hand for her ; but, with a light, musical laugh, 
she evaded his grasp, and ran into the house.” 


The Dead Heart. 


45 


He followed her. An old woman, grim, gray, 
and ghastly, sat rocking dismally in the corner, 
chanting to herself a wild, dreary dirge. 

“ l have brought you a guest, good Aga,” 
said the sweet voice of Cara, stooping her 
bright face over the hideous old*woman. 

“ Better for you, child, he had perished in the 
desert, with the burning sands for his grave ! 
Better for you his bones were bleaching on a 
rock in the Dead Sea ! Shall the vulture look 
on the dove, and let it escape ? Will the red 
simoon pass over the lily without withering 
it ? Cara, Cara ! child of my heart ! be- 
ware ! ” 

The haughty face of the young Englishman 
flushed with anger at her words ; but Cara went 
over to him, and said gently : 

“ Do not be displeased with poor old Aga. 
She does not like strangers ; but she is good, 
after all. You must not go away because she 
speaks harshly.” 

“ I could forgive my worst enemy if so sweet 
an intercessor as you pleaded for him,” was his 
gallant reply, as he lifted her white hand to his 
lips. 

“ Cara, Cara ! my lily of the desert, beware ! 
The curse of the Dead Heart hangs over 


46 


The Dead Heart. 


us still ! ” croaked the old woman, in her raven- 
like voice. 

“ What does she mean ?” asked he, seeing the 
radiant face of Cara grow pale. 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” she answered, hur- 
riedly, pressing her hands to her bosom. “Aga 
always talks strangely. Do not mind her ; do 
not listen to her words.” 

“ But this curse of the Dead Heart — tell me 
what it means, sweet Cara,” 

“Not now — not now; you are weary, and 
must rest. I have spread you a couch of the 
sycamore leaves. May your dreams be pleasant 
to-night.” 

“ They cannot be otherwise, for they will be 
of thee, bright Cara,” he said, throwing himself 
on his fragrant bed, and closing his tired eyes 
in sleep. 

A stray sunbeam, next morning, stole through 
the low window, and kissed the closed eyelids 
of the young Englishman. He awoke and 
looked round. A white vision, with floating 
robes and long, pale, golden hair stood in the 
sunlight, singing softly to herself. The blue 
eyes were fixed sadly and dreamily on the sunny 
morning sky, like one whose thoughts are far 
away. A shadow fell beside her, and looking 


The Dead Heart. 


47 


up, she beheld the tall, dark figure of her guest 
standing by her side. To him the sunshine was 
not half so bright as the smile with which she 
welcomed him. 

“Yonder bright sky seems to beckon me on,” 
he said, shading his eyes from the rays that fell 
in a dark shower through the dark leaves of 
the sycamore. “ Must I leave you to-day, 
Cara ? ” 

“No; not to-day. Stay with me, for I am 
lonely,” said Cara, with a low sigh. 

There was a smile in his dark eyes as he prom- 
ised, but Cara heeded it not. Morning after 
morning broke brightly over the yellow desert, 
and stealing through the low window! fell warmly 
and lovingly on the lips and eyes of the gay 
young lord who lingered still in the little cot b^ 
the sea. 

Why should he go ? A chain of roses bound 
him to the spot — the chain of Cara’s love. He 
was a prisoner there ; his fetters were Cara’s 
white arms ; his cell, the young, guileless heart 
that so often swelled and throbbed against his 
own ; his jailer, the blue eyes that gazed into 
his own with such deep, unutterable love. It 
amused and pleased him, this adoring worship ; 
there was novelty in it, and gay Lord Leon liked 


48 


The Dead Heart . 


novelty. It was “ all very well to be wor- 
shiped for once,” he said to himself ; and no- 
body, save this artless little creature, was ever 
likely to mistake him for an angel again — 
unless, indeed, it were a fallen angel — and so, 
now that he was a god, he must make the most 
of it. 

And the young moon, that had shone in the 
sky like a broken ring of silver when Lord Leon 
came, grew round and full, and looked down 
mournfully into the blue eyes of Cara, as she sat 
•under the sycamore — her golden hair on his 
faithless Breast. But Cara saw not its warning- 
looks ; for there was no light for her in the wide 
universe, save what beamed from the dark, beau- 
tiful eyes of her lover ; so that pale, solemn 
moon pined and faded away unheeded, and 
young Leon still was a dweller in the cot by 
the sea. 

But one night, as he stood watching the sun 
set, his roving heart grew restless for the green 
fields of his own land, that lay beyond the sea. 
He turned away from the yellow desert, that 
wearied his eyes with its monotony, and fixed 
them longingly on the distant horizon. A white, 
fleecy cloud, like a friendly hand, seemed beckon- 
ing him away ; but just then, Cara’s sweet face 


The Dead Heart. 


49 

was upturned to his, and shut out the cloud 
from his view. 

“ Why are you so sad to-night, Leon ? ” she 
said. “ Why do you look so at the setting sun ? 
Do not watch it ! Look into my eyes — you 
have told me often they were brighter to you 
than the beautiful sunlight/ 

“Yes,- sweet Cara, you are my day-star, my 
dream ; but I was just wondering, then, if the 
eyes that love me in far-off England were 
watching that same sunlight now. It is a long, 
long time since I left them, Cara.” 

“ Oh ! do not think of them — do not speak 
of them ! . Do I not love you enough for all ? 
I would die for you, Leon. Tell me — promise 
me you will never leave me.” 

He only laughed, and sealed her pleading lips 
and eyes with kisses ; but when his old friend, 
the sunbeam, crept the next morning through 
the window to greet him, Lord Leon was gone. 
The bed of sycamore leaves was empty, and he 
was far away. The dark Dead Sea, the cot, the 
waving sycamore, the yellow desert, and sweet, 
loving Cara were forgotten now. A new, un- 
controllable desire — a vague, irresistible impulse 
to visit England and see his bride once more 
was upon him. It urged him on night and day, 


5 ° 


The Dead Heart. 


and he rested not till one sunny morning the 
white cliffs of Albion arose before him. 

He hastened to his grand, aristocratic home. 
Ah ! in gazing on those marble halls, those 
noble parks, and those grand old trees, is it any 
wonder he forgot the humble little cot under 
the sycamore? But around that stately mansion 
there hung a dreamy air of gloom. Silence and 
solitude reigned where once there had been 
naught heard but mirth and music. The very 
servants drew back as they saw him, and looked 
at him with sad, reproachful eyes. He could 
not, dared not speak the question that trembled 
on his lips. Taking the broad staircase at a 
bound, he entered the chamber of his bride. It 
was all draped in white, with dark shadows, 
crouching in the ghostly corners — the realization 
of his worst fears. And there on the bed, half- 
buried in roses, pale as the brow they adorned, 
lay his fair, high-born Luah, her beautiful face 
cold in death. 

All the old love awoke in his heart at sight 
of that sweet, cold face. There was no reproach 
in the gentle, half-smiling lips, no tears beneath 
the long, dark lashes that lay tenderly on the 
fair, pale cheeks, no repulse in the little hands 
folded so calmly across her stilled heart ; and 


The Dead Heart. 


51 


pet the very absence of reproach made him 
feel it all the more. All the world, had he 
possessed it, would have been given could he 
have called her back to life now. His passionate 
caresses could call no flush to that marble cheek 
no more. For the first time in his life he 
realizecLdeath. 

He listened, and shaded his face with his 
hands, that they might not see its anguish, as 
the old nurse spoke of her death. 

“ She died of a broken heart,” said the old 
woman, sadly— “ died in loving thee, Lord 
Leon. All the long, sad days, she used to sit 
at her window, looking for you, watching the 
wide, dusty road for the first glimpse of your 
black steed, with eager eyes and burning 
cheeks. And when sun after sun set, and yet 
you came not, though her eyes filled and sad- 
dened, and her sweet lips quivered, she left not 
her post. Oh ! those long, lonesdme nights — 
through them all she sat by that window, wait- 
ing for one who never came. The moonlight 
used to stream white and chill on her pale, sad 
face ; but she loved it, for she said she knew 
you, too, were gazing upon if in some far-off 
land. And so my young, lovely Lady Luah 
waned and waned with the waning moon, until 


52 


The Dead Heart . 


at last, one bright sunset, she passed in peace 
away — all her watching ended and over. ‘ Tell 
him,’ were her last words, ‘ I loved him to the 
end — loved him more than I have words to say. 
He has forgotten me, but in heaven I will love 
him still. O Leon, Leon!’ and so she died, 
with your name on her gentle lips. O Lord 
Leon, why were you born to bring woe and 
death on all who ever loved you ? ” 

That night, as he watched by the bedside of 
his dead bride, hearing nothing but the mourn- 
ful ticking of the death-watch on the wall, a 
voice low and solemn sounded through the 
gloom with the words : 

“ Go to Cara — she alone can give back life 
to her you love. She can give you her living 
heart for this dead one. She has told you the 
legend of the Dead Heart ; and if she loves 
you better than her life, that love will be power- 
ful enough to rekindle life in this cold frame. 
Go to Cara — you have deserted her, but 
woman’s love is stronger than death — it can 
never die. Go to Cara — you have deceived her, 
but she will give life, and heart, and hope, to 
make you happy. Go to Cara — go, go ! ” 

He started to his feet, and looked wildly 
around. He might have been dreaming ; foi 


The Dead Heart . 


55 


all was again still, and there was no one in the 
room. But the words “Go to Cara, go to 
Cara!” were sounding still in his ears. A wild 
hope entered his mind, and called new life to 
his grief-dimmed eyes. When the morning 
came, with dark-shrouded face and heavily-fall- 
ing tears, and the moaning wind sighing a re- 
quiem for one so young and lovely, he laid the 
cold, graceful form of Luah within the damp, 
lonely vault ; and then mounting his dark steed, 
once more rode off to seek the cot by the Dead 
Sea. 

There passed long weeks and months of rest- 
less travel ere his eyes again fell on the hot 
sands of the desert, and the sluggish waters of 
that lifeless sea. The solitary sycamore still 
waved above the cot, and the golden sunshine 
streamed as brightly as ever on the spot where 
so oft he had sat with Cara in his arms. 
While he gazed, a white vision met his eve, 
and Cara, with her sunshiny hair and blue eyes, 
stood before him with outstretched hands. 

“ I knew you would come back,” cbo sain, 
joyfully. “ O Leon, I have waited for you so 
long ! Y ou will never leave me again, for I 
have been so lonely. Take me up ; I am tired 
wandering through the hot desert,” 


54 


The Dead Heart. 


“ I cannot stay with you, Cara ; I must hasten 
home again. Listen : My bride, my Luah, is 
dead. I love her now best of all on earth, and 
you must give her back to me, Cara. Had I 
not lingered here with you, she would have been 
living yet. Cara, will you give this warm, living 
heart of yours for her dead one ? If you love 
me as you say, you will do this, to make me 
happy. How it is to be done I know not, but 
you have told me it is in your power.” 

All the light faded out of her azure eyes — 
the very sunshine seemed leaving her bright 
hair — hope and joy alike died out of her face, 
as she listened to his words. 

“Then you love me no more?” she said, in 
the saddest voice that ever was heard. 

“ I love but my bride, Cara.” 

“ Then there is nothing more left for me to 
live for — only one joy remaining in the world 
for poor Cara, and that is to die for thee, Leon. 
O my throbbing head ! take it in your cool 
hands, Leon. Oh ! this aching, aching heart, 
that never will know rest more. Oh ! my beau- 
tiful home in Circassia ; the sunlight is falling 
on the poplar trees ; my sisters are twining roses 
in their dark hair; my blue-eyed mother is 
weeping under the orange groves for her child * 


The Dead Heart. 


55 

but Cara will come back no more. Hark ! what 
is that, Leon ? ” 

“Only the rain, Cara. You will be wet.” 

“No, no; it is my mother’s tears. Some- 
one weeps for me in heaven. I hear afar off 
the sounding timbrels and lutes of my native 
land, and the merry feet of the dancers among 
the palm-groves. Night is at hand. They are 
seeking their homes ; but I have no place of 
rest. Oh ! woe is me ! Give me your knife, 
Leon. Its stroke is swift and keen like the 
words you have spoken. I die to give life to 
her you love ! ” 

He saw the bright, blue glitter of the sharp 
blade ; but ere he could stay her hand, her 
warm, loving heart was gone, and the lily of 
the deseit lay still and dead at his feet. 

With a wild cry of anguish, he lifted her in 
his arms. Her golden hair fell heavily over his 
breast ; the long lashes lay over the weary blue 
eyes, from which the love-light was quenched 
forever. In vain he called upon her to awake. 
The cold, pale lips answered not — never would 
answer more. 

There, under the lonely sycamore tree, he laid 
Cara. A shower of leaves fell like pitying te ars 
upon the little grave, and Lord Leon mounted 


56 


The Dead Heart. 


his horse ; and dead Cara was left alone with the 
sighing sycamore and streaming sunshine. 

Very pale and sad he looked as he stood once 
more within his castle hall; but there before 
him was Luah, his fair bride, smiling, and happy 
as when he first knew her. Yet he gazed upon 
her in bitter anguish ; for he knew how dearly 
her life had been purchased. 

That night, when the midnight moon shone 
on his closed eyes, a sad, reproachful face, with 
large, mournful blue eyes, bent over him ; and 
he heard, in the solemn stillness, a low, sweet, 
sighing voice. 

“ O Leon ! — my heart ! my heart ! My 
mother is waiting for me under the plane- 
trees ; my sisters are twining wreaths for my 
hair ; my father’s bugle sounds no more among 
the hills, where he waits for Cara to come 
home. O Leon ! I was happy till you came ; 
and then all the sunlight left the heavens to 
dwell in your dark eyes. When you were gone, 
all was night — moonless, starless night ! Why 
did you leave me, Leon ? Aga sleeps by the 
moaning sea, and Cara is alone. O Leon ! — 
my heart ! my heart ! ” 

He started up iu terror ; but the fair, pale 
visitor was gone; and he could hear nothing 


The Dead Heart. 


5 ? 

but the night wind whispering mysteriously to 
the sleeping flowers without. Yet night after 
night the white face, with its waving hair, 
would return, and the sweet, plaintive voice 
would sigh in his ear ; but when he held out 
his arms to clasp her, Cara was gone. The 
gay songs and bright smiles of his bride- were 
all unheeded now. In her merriest laugh he 
could hear naught but the desolate moaning 
of the sycamore above the lowly hut in the 
yellow desert. And though his young bride 
was living and happy by his side, yet the 
heart of Lord Leon lay cold and dead forever- 
more. 


COURTING ONE’S COUSIN. 


One pleasant June morning found me an in- 
valid in my rooms at Hotel. I was suffer- 

ing from a wound in the shoulder, received — I 
am almost ashamed to say — in a duel, a few 
days before. I have a very hazy recollection of 
the whole affair. Something I do remember — 
of drinking too much wine and of getting into 
a towering passion for some fancied insult — of 
throwing a glass of wine in the face of the 
aggressor — the upshot of which was, a polite 
invitation to “pistols before coffee/’ next morn- 
ing. As a man of honor, I, of course, could 
not decline, and left the ground a few hours 
after with a pretty severe flesh-wound ; while 
my antagonist promenaded the streets with his 
arm in a sling — his encf of the affray being a 
broken arm. 

I sat glowering sulkily out of the window at 
the crowd of passers-by (and feeling pretty 


Courting Ones Cousin . 59 

much in the same amiable frame of mind as a 
bear with a sore head), when my sable attend- 
ant, Jim, entered with some half-dozen letters, 
which he presented to me with a bow and a 
grin. I glanced carelessly at the superscrip- 
tions, and recognizing among them the hand- 
writing of Ned Cardiff — a dashing, handsome, 
glorious fellow, and a cousin of mine to boot — 
1 tore it open, and read : 

“Charley, My Dear Fellow: — Pack up 
your traps and start for Ashfield, as soon as you 
receive this. We’re confoundedly short of mas- 
culines here, and the ladies, God bless ’em, are 
as thick (and as troublesome, too) as mosquitoes 
in summer. I can promise you some glorious 
sport ; and as for fishing, I’ll back our trout 
streams against any in the world. Then, there’s 
two deuced pretty girls here, cousins of ours, and 
of yours, too, for that matter — little Nina 
Cardiff, who breaks as many hearts as a boy 
could shake a stick at, and Marguerite DeVere, 
with whom I have a serious notion of falling in 
love myself. Jessie sends you a long epistle, to 
which I must refer you for further particulars. 
Don’t forget to come. 

“ Yours forever, Ned Cardiff. 

“By the way, Charley, they say you have 
fought a duel, lately, and came off with flying 
colors. If so, make the most of it when you 


6o 


Courting One s Cousin. 

arrive; thebare rumor has already raised you 
immensely in the opinion of one — I mean that 
little vixen, Nina. N. C.” 

I threw Ned’s letter aside, and took up his 
sister’s. After urging me most pressingly to 
accept Ned’s invitation, Jessie concluded with: 

“ I am sure, my dear cousin, the presence of 
the renowned beauty and belle, Nina Cardiff, 
ought to be inducement enough to bring you 
here ; and if her charms prove insufficient to re- 
tain your roving, wayward heart, her bank stock 
cannot fail — for you know she is an heiress. 
She is dying to see you (you know she has 
never had that pleasure), and declares she will 
have you most deplorably in' love with her be- 
fore the first week of your visit is past. As for 
cousin Marguerite, I rather think she is love- 
proof, and even will remain invulnerable against 
the fascinations of that wild, harem-scarem, good- 
looking scapegrace, Mr. Charley Gordon. I do 
think she is the very proudest girl I ever knew 
—not that she is pretty ; at least, that is not the 
word. I cannot describe her; but you must 
come and judge for yourself. Now, Charley, 
dear, do not refuse. 

“ Your little cousin, Jessie.” 

I crumpled both letters, and threw them 
aside, in no very amiable frame of mind. In 
fact, there was nothing I would not rather have 


Courting Ones Cousin. 


61 


done, just then, than go and play the gallant 
to three fine ladies all summer. However, 
there was no refusing, without positive rude- 
ness, and with a muttered “ Confound it all ! ” 

I rang for Jim, and gave" orders to prepare 
everything for our departure. It was a pleas- 
ant, sunny afternoon when I reached Ashfield. 
Six years, with their lights and shadows, had 
passed and' gone since I left it last, and as I 
caught sight of the rambling old farmhouse, my 
destination, I thought of the dreary day on 
which I left it, and heaved an absent sigh as I 
thought of little May Ellis, whose brown eyes 
had closed long ago, under the green clods, in 
the village churchyard. 

I reached the house without being seen by 
any of the family, and was about to enter the 
hall-door, when the sounds of music and laugh- 
ter came floating through an open window near 
at hand. A thick screen of vines covered it, 
and hid me from sight, as I glanced through. 
A young girl, transcendently beautiful, was 
bending over a harp, playing at intervals wild 
snatches of old ballads, and laughing and chat- 
ting merrily between whiles. I guessed at once 
this was the “heiress, beauty and belle,” Miss 
Cardiff, though , I had never seen her before. 


62 


Courting Ones Cousin. 

Stretched at full length on a sofa beside her, 
in the most careless way imaginable, lay Ned, 
looking most provokingly handsome, and listen- 
ing with that air of easy condescension which 
good-looking gentlemen invariably put on with 
ladies, when conscious they are without a rival. 
From my position, I coulpl hear all that was 
said without being myself seen. 

“ So this wild cousin of ours will be here to- 
day ? ” said the young lady, beginning to play 
“Auld Robin Gray.” 

“ So I believe,” said Ned, with a half yawn, 
“and I must tell you before hand, Nina, not to 
fall in love with him.” 

“ Indeed, then, I just will,” said the little lady, 
saucily ; “ that is, if it’s worth while. Is he 
handsome, Ned ? — I hate homely men.” 

“ Humph ! no — that is, yes ; he’s passable, 
Charley is,” said Ned, in no very gracious tone; 
“ but not half as good-looking as I am. On 
my honor, it’s true, Nina, you needn’t laugh.” 

“Indeed!” thought I, “bashfulness don’t 
seem to be one of your failings, Master Ned. 
Maybe I’ll spoil your good opinion of yourself 
before long.” 

“Well, anyway,” said Miss Nina, “ I’ll talk 
him desperately in love with me, and then you’ll 


Courting Ones Cousin. 63 

see the airs I’ll put on. I’ll draw myself up, 
and look down on him. He’ll be sighing at 
my feet, of course.” 

“ The deuce I shall,” muttered I. 

“ He’s as impudent as Old Nick,” said Ned, 
complimentarily ; “at least, he was when I saw 
him last. Perhaps he’s improved.” 

“That he has, and here’s to prove it!” ex- 
claimed I, suddenly springing in through the 
window ; and catching Nina in my arms, before 
she could recover from her amazement, I im- 
printed a cousinly salute on her rosy cheek. 

“ Hillo ! what in thunder ! I say Charley, 
stop that ! Confound your impudence, you 
scoundrel !” ejaculated Ned, springing to his 
legs, savagely. 

“ Pooh ! Ned, take it coolly, you’ll last the 
longer ; besides, it’s only a cousinly salute, man. 
Miss Nina — oh, she’s gone. I say, Ned, she’s 
devilish pretty. They say the other one’s a 
fright, so I’ll leave her to you, and devote my- 
self to little blue-eyes all summer, and if she 
goes back to the city Miss Nina Cardiff, Mr. 
Charles Gordon won’t be to blame.” 

“Thank you,” said Ned, drily, with a sig- 
nificant glance towards the door. 

I followed the direction of his eye, and to my 


64 Courting Ones Cousin. 

dismay saw standing in the doorway a lady 
whom I felt sure was the one I had been so 
freely demonstrating a “ fright.” She was tall, 
slightly above the middle height, with a tine 
figure, but otherwise rather plain. She was 
dressed in plain black, which with, her long, 
black ringlets, and large, dark eyes, formed a 
striking contrast to her clear, colorless .com- 
plexion. I have never seen on any face such 
a look of superb, withering scorn as hers wore, 
as I caught her eye. She paused but for a mo- 
ment, then swept haughtily away. 

“ By Jove, you’ve done it*!” exclaimed Ned, 
in delight. “If she ever speaks to you after 
this, I’m much mistaken.” 

“ Confound it !” muttered I, “it’s always my 
luck ! Miss Marguerite will certainly have a 
high opinion of me.” 

Jessie’s entrance, at this moment, put a stop 
to further soliloquizing. After the first greet' 
ings w#re past, she exclaimed, abruptly ; 

“What in the world, Charley, have you done 
to make enemies of the girls so soon? Nina 
declares that you are the most audaciously im- 
pudent fellow she ever met ; and when I offered 
to introduce you to Marguerite, she drew her- 
self up in her cold, haughty way, and said she 


65 


Courting One's Cousin . 

had seen quite enough of you ! It seems rather 
strange ; and you used to be such a favorite 
with the ladies.” 

Ned leaned back and laughed, until the tears 
stood in his eyes, at his sister’s speech. I made 
a desperate effort to remain serious ; but, as the 
ludicrous situation in which I had placed my- 
self arose before me, my gravity gave way, and 
I was forced to join Ned in an uproarious peal. 
J essie stared, first at one and then at the other, 
evidently at a loss to account for our mirth ; 
and at last, with a look of disgust, turned and 
left the room. 

At the * dinner-table I was formally intro- 
duced to both ladies. Nina, most elegantly 
dressed, and looking positively bewitching, en- 
tered first. As Jessie presented me to her as 
“ Cousin Charley,” she drew her little form up 
to her full height, and endeavored to look digni- 
fied ; but, as she glanced demurely up from 
under her long lashes, and caught the half 
smile I could not repress, she blushed furiously, 
and made another attempt to look grave ; 
but all her efforts failed, and she turned away 
to hide an uncontrollable burst of laughter, in 
which I might have joined, had I not espied 
Jessie and Marguerite standing beside me. A 


66 


Courting Ones Cousin. 


haughty bend of her proud head, and a sar- 
castic curl of her lip, answered my profound 
bow, and convinced me that, if Nina had for- 
given me, Marguerite was very far from having 
done so. 

I devoted myself most assiduously to Nina 
for the remainder of the day, much to the dis- 
gust of Ned, who thereupon became most 
overpoweringly sulky, and answered all ques- 
tions put to him with a gruff “ yes ” or “ no.” 
In the evening, Nina and I withdrew to a corner 
by ourselves, leaving the other three to amuse 
themselves as best they might. Ned seated 
himself by the window, and began to amuse 
himself and deafen us by beating “ the devil’s 
tattoo” with his fingers, on the sill; Marguerite 
took a book, and began to read ; while 
Jessie seated herself, with the embroidery, at 
the center-table, endeavoring to draw the 
others into conversation, but most signally 
failed, for Ned, very ungraciously, wouldn’t 
answer at all, and Marguerite’s brief, cold re- 
plies were anything but encouraging. Accord- 
ingly, after a while, they all relapsed into 
mournful silence, while their solemn faces made 
Nina laugh until she cried. 

As for me, I never found the hours pass 


Courting One s Cousin. 


67 


more swiftly or pleasantly. Nina set about 
keeping her promise with most praiseworthy 
diligence, and opened the whole battery of her 
charms upon me. The irresistible artillery of 
smiles, and curls, and bright eyes, and dimples, 
were brought to bear, in full force, upon my 
luckless self, and — as Miss Nina evidently ex- 
pected — before the evening was 'half over, I 
knocked under and surrendered. 

“You sing, don’t you, cousin Charley?” 
said Nina, looking up in my face with a most 
bewitching smile, as, with ill-repressed laugh- 
ter, she finished the ballad of “ Widow Ma- 
chree.” 

“ Sometimes ; but I dare not venture, after 
listening t b you.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! I hate compliments. Do 
sing for me, now, like a dear, good cousin. I 
have been singing for you all the evening.” 

“ He would be more than mortal who could 
resist such a pleader,” said I, with affected 
gallantry, whereupon she Jaughed, and looking 
in her eyes with a sentimental sigh, I began : 

" I have loved thee, through joy and through sorrow.” 

I kept my eyes fixed on Nina’s face as I 
sang, and had the satisfaction of seeing her 


68 


Courting One\s Cousin, 


suddenly grow crimson, partly at the words, 
and partly at the meaning look which accom- 
panied them. Even the others seemed for a 
moment to grow interested, the “ devil’s tattoo” 
suddenly stopped, Jessie dropped her work to 
listen, and Marguerite closed her book, to follow 
her example, I imagined ; when, to the amaze- 
ment of all, she arose as I began the third 
verse, yawned, declared herself ennuied to 
death, and, taking her lamp, with a formal 
good-night, she left the room. I was struck 
dumb with astonishment, as were the others, 
at this unexpected act. I remembered my 
words in the morning ; and the conviction that 
she was now taking her revenge for my inso- 
lence, instantly rushed across my mind.' Ned 
evidently came to the same conclusion, for, 
as he arose to follow her there was an ill- 
repressed smile lurking round the corners of 
his mouth. 

When I sought my pillow some two hours 
after, it was with the full conviction that I was 
desperately in love with Miss Nina, and that, 
of all the ill-tempered, taciturn, disagreeable 
young ladies I had ever met with, Marguerite 
De V ere was the worst. And yet, there was a 
lurking, unconfessed wish that I had not ren- 


Courting Ones Cousin. 


69 


dered myself so disagreeable to her underneath 
all ; and, involuntarily, I found myself compar- 
ing her with Nina. True, as far as looks went, 
there could be no comparison. Nina was a re- 
nowned beauty, an acknowledged belle, while 
Marguerite was universally pronounced “rather 
a plain-looking girl ; ” yet Marguerite’s tall, erect 
figure — her broad, high, expansive brow — her 
proud, dark eyes, and firmly compressed lips, 
gave her a look far more intellectual and dig- 
nified than her cousin could ever wear. Nina, 
at first sight, commanded admiration ; Mar- 
guerite, respect, which she received with that 
quiet dignity with which a queen might receive 
the homage of her subjects. 

It was near noon the next day that I wan- 
dered off by myself down toward the shore. 
Ned had gone off shooting, and had urged me 
to accompany him ; but not feeling disposed, I 
declined. As I lay stretched out in the sun, 
underneath a projecting rock, lazily smoking 
a cigar, the sound of approaching footsteps 
reached my ears ; and a moment after Marguerite 
and Nina appeared, each bearing in her hand a 
bunch of wild flowers. 

“ Oh, Charley ! you are just the very per- 
son we want!” exclaimed Nin- “Do climb up 


jo Courting One’s Cousin. 

that rock there, and get us some of those pretty 
blue flowers. It’s so horrid steep, I dare not 
attempt it.” 

“ Delighted to be of service to my charming 
little cousin,” said I, springing to my feet, 
and pitching my cigar into the lake ; while 
Marguerite, turning away, began leisurely re- 
tracing her steps homeward. 

The rock to which Nina alluded was a high, 
almost perpendicular cliff, on the summit of 
which grew a sort of wild blue flower. With 
a little difficulty I scrambled up its steep side, 
and gathering a large cluster of the flowers, 
I turned to descend, when a fragment of rock 
on which I had placed my feet gave way, and 
I was hurled headlong upon the sharp rocks 
beneath. For a moment I lay stunned, then a 
wild, piercing cry broke upon the air as Nina 
came bounding to my side. I attempted to 
rise, but a sharp spasm of intense agony that 
seemed shooting through my arm, convinced 
me that it was broken, and that my half-healed 
wound had been torn open anew, while my 
coat was saturated with blood. A coldness 
like that of death crept through every vein. 
I strove fruitlessly to speak and still the 
frenzied shrieks of Nina. Suddenly another 


Courting Ones Cousin. 71 

form advanced, and sank on her knees by my 
side, a soft hand wiped the cold damp off my 
brow. With an effort, I opened my glazing 
eyes, and fixed them on the face bending over 
me. It was Marguerite, from whose face every 
trace of color had faded, leaving her as cold 
and white as monumental marble. I pressed 
her hand faintly, and made another desperate 
attempt to rise, but exhausted by pain and 
loss of blood, for the first time in my life I 
fainted. 

Long weeks of suffering followed, which 
seem like a troubled dream to me now. I have 
a faint recollection, that during all that time I 
was striving vainly to climb up rocks, whose 
summits were lost in the sky. Anxious faces, 
pale and troubled, seemed ever flitting by me ; 
and I often caught myself complaining to some- 
one with clear, dark eyes, strangely like Mar- 
guerite’s, of those endless rocks. 

One day, I awoke from a long, refreshing 
sleep, with the sound of many voices in my 
ears. Somehow, they seemed strangely famil- 
iar ; and screened from view by the curtains, I 
listened. 

“ I’m sure, of all the tiresome, troublesome, 
provoking patients that ever was, he’s the 


72 Courting Ones Cousin. 

worst,” said the voice of Nina; “all the time 
raving about ‘those endless rocks,’ and mutter- 
ing something about ‘ black eyes.’ I’m sure he 
needn’t talk ; look at the dark circles round his 
own eyes.” 

“They only came since he got sick,” said the 
low tones of Marguerite. 

“ My ! if he had died, I would never forgive 
myself for having made him climb after those 
worthless flowers. I’d do something desperate, 
if he had — ‘ leave the world and climb a tree,’ 
maybe,” said Nina. “ But oh ! Jessie, if you 
had seen him when they were bringing him 
home, his coat all soaked through with blood, 
his eyes closed, and lying so cold, and still, and 
pale, just like one dead. I was awfully fright- 
ened myself that day. I don’t see how Mar- 
guerite ever kept so quiet ; except that she was 
almost as white as myself, she was perfectly 
composed.” 

“Poor Charley,” said Jessie, “that came 
pretty near being the last service he could ever 
render anyone. I don’t think he would ever 
have recovered, had it not been for the careful 
nursing of Marguerite.” 

“ La ! yes;” said Nina. “ I thought she hated 
Charley, and yet the other night, not feeling 


Courting 0?ies Cousin. 


73 


sleepy, I came to sit up with her, and, entering 
unperceived, I found her kneeling by the bed- 
side, crying over him. There, you needn’t 
blush, Marguerite, I felt like crying for him my- 
self, poor fellow ! it would be a pity one so 
young and so handsome should die.” 

I rather fancy, had Nina seen me just then, 
she would have no cause to complain of my 
pallor. At any rate, I felt very red. 

“ I thought you intended having him at youj 
feet before the end of a month, Nina,” said 
Jessie, laughing. “ If I may judge, you seem 
to be much more deeply smitten with him 
than he is with you. There — it is your turn 
to blush now. Look, Marguerite, how red 
she is ! ” 

“ Nonsense, Jessie,” said Nina, rather pettish- 
ly, “ one may like one’s cousin without being 
‘ smitten', as you call it. I’m sure, I’m twice 
as much in love with Ned.” 

“Yes, and to prove it, you heard with per- 
fect unconcern, the other day, that Ned was en- 
gaged to Marguerite ; whereas, when old dame 
Martha, in the village, told you Charley used to 
be in love with her niece, little May Ellis, you 
got so white I thought you were going to 
faint,” said Jessie. 


74 


Courting One's Cousin. 


“ Oh, well, that was nothing, only — a — a 
headache. But, Jess, who was May Ellis?” 

“ Oh, a dear little thing, with the sweetest 
face you ever saw. She was deeply in love 
with Charley ; but the poor child died, and is 
buried in the old graveyard. Charley has her 
likeness and a lock of her hair. Perhaps when 
you are Mrs. Charles Gordon, he will give 
them to you. I hardly think he will part with 
them before that.” 

Not wishing to remain a listener longer to a 
conversation which was growing rather too per- 
sonal, I made a sudden noise, which brought 
Jessie instantly to my side. Her delight at 
seeing me again restored to reason knew no 
bounds, which I do not wonder at seeing. I 
must have been a terrible trouble to them all 
with my raving. 

With two such nurses as Jessie and Nina, a 
man would certainly deserve to die who would 
not get well ; but, much to my disappointment, 
Marguerite never appeared. Something — I 
know not what — restrained me from asking, 
and, though anxious to know the reason, I was 
forced to remain silent and ignorant as to the 
cause of her absence. 

“ I declare, Charley, you’re the greatest 


Courting Ones Cousin. 


75 


bother,” said Jessie, one day, as I persisted in 
refusing to swallow the gruel she had prepared. 
“I am sure I don’t wonder Marguerite was 
glad to be rid of you. You were twice as 
easy to nurse in your crazy days as you are 
now.” 

“ Marguerite,” repeated I, feeling a sudden 
heat in my face, “ why, when was she here ? 
I haven’t seen her.” 

No, I suppose not ; she has not been here 
since you began to recover, but when your life 
was almost despaired of, she watched over you 
night and day. But dear me, how red you are 
in the face ! I am afraid you are getting fever- 
ish again. There now, hush ; you must not 
speak another word.” 

I shall not detail how the long, dreary days 
dragged on. Suffice it to say, that at last, to 
my great joy, I was permitted to sit up. Both 
Jessie and Nina did all they could to make the 
slow hours pass pleasantly, especially the latter, 
who scarcely ever left me. Yet I looked 
impatiently for another, who never came — for 
one, every glance of whose dark eyes was now 
worth to me all the world besides. Sometimes 
from my window I caught a glimpse of her 
black dress, as she walked down the village 


;6 


Courting Ones Cousin. 


street, or at other times I could hear her laugh- 
ing and chatting with Ned in the rooms below, 
until I almost grew wild with jealousy. Some- 
times,- in the pleasant summer evenings, they 
would sit. out m the garden, she singing for 
him, and he bending over her in a way for 
which I longed to shoot him. 

Several times I was on the point of asking 
Nina why she shunned me, but as often some 
secret feeling of delicacy held me back. At 
length I grew desperate, and, pointing to Ned 
and Marguerite as they strolled through the 
garden one day, I said to Nina, with as much 
carelessness as I could assume : 

“ Ned and Miss De Vere seem to have be- 
come very great friends of late. What have I 
done, that she should avoid me so ? ” 

“You! Oh, nothing.” answered Nina, in- 
differently, “ only she says you’re tiresome and 
a bore. In fact, she never speaks of you at 
all ; and I believe if she did not hear us speak . 
of you so often, she would forget your very 
existence. I rather think she will be Mrs. 
Edward Cardiff before long.” 

She had said enough to confirm my worst 
fears, and I turned away in bitterness of spirit. 
A moment after, the pair below stopped right 


Courting Ones Cousin. 77 

underneath my window. He held her hand in 
his, and I heard him say : 

“ Dearest Marguerite, how can I ever repay 
you for this ? ” 

Her reply was spoken so low I could not 
catch it, but Ned answered, joyfully: 

“ You have made me the happiest of men ; ” 
and, raising her hand to his lips, he entered 
the house. 

I believe, had it been in my power just then, 
I would have shot him without remorse. As 
it was, my determination to leave immediately 
was taken. I would write a note, explaining 
that urgent business called me away, and would 
leave unperceived, after dark. 

In pursuance of this determination, I took 
the first opportunity of entering unperceived 
into the library, to write my note. I had 
scarcely crossed the threshold, when I beheld 
a young lady seated by the window, her eyes 
fixed intently on the pages of a book she held 
in her hand. It needed no second glance to tell 
who she was — that tall, fine figure, the proud 
lift of the head, those long black ringlets could 
only belong to Marguerite De Vere. 

She raised her head as I entered, and a vivid 
crimson mantled cheek and brow as she rec- 


78 Courting Ones Cousin. 

ognized me. It lasted but for a moment ; all 
the old haughtiness came back, and with a cold 
bow she turned to depart. In that moment I 
forgot everything, forgot she loved my cousin, 
and would soon be his wife. I only remem- 
bered -I should never see her again; and with 
passionate vehemence I poured out before her 
the long-hidden secret of my heart. I remem- 
ber not a word now of what I said. I only 
know I concluded with : 

V And now, farewell, Marguerite ! May you 
be happy with him you love! As for me, I 
shall never trouble you again ! ” 

She had turned away as I spoke, and cov- 
ered her face with her hands. Her silence was' 
the knell of my last hope. I turned away, and 
had already reached the door, when her voice 
arrested me : 

“ Mr. Gordon — Charles — don’t go ! ” 

Accordingly, Charles did not go, but came 
back, like the good, obedient young man that 
he was ; and drawing Marguerite with him to 
the sofa, they sat down in very affectionate 
proximity, while the young lady told him she 
didn’t love anybody else but himself, and had 
been cold and distant, and reserved, because 
she thought he didn’t care about her, but was 


Courting Ones Cousin. 79 

in love with somebody else — May Ellis, per- 
haps ? 

“ But Ned, Marguerite, what of him?” said 
I, relating what I had seen in the garden. 

She laughed. 

“ Oh, poor Ned ! — ye s, I did certainly promise 
him something that time. Probably you know 
he is in love with Nina — at least you ought to, 
for you see a great deal more of her than 
anyone else. Well, it .seems he thinks she 
does not care for him, and i promised to plead 
his case, and you heard him thanking me — that 
is all. Now, are you satisfied ?” 

That I was perfectly satisfied, I gave Mar- 
guerite most convincing proof, for she ran 
blushing scarlet from the library, leaving me to 
stroll back to my room to think over a second 
time my project of eloping with myself. I had 
scarcely entered when I was followed by J essie 
and Nina. 

“I say, Charley!” said Jessie, “what trea- 
son were you and Marguerite plotting together 
upstairs? I met her coming out with very 
red cheeks ; and. to my anxious inquiry as to 
whether she felt any way feverish, she referred 
me to you, saying she thought you were suf- 
fering with disease of the heart, and that she 


8o 


Courting 0?ies Cousin . 


had caught it from you. I hope to goodness 
it’s not infectious, or you and I will be catching 
it next. Eh, Nina?” 

But Nina did not reply. She was standing 
by the window, one arm resting on the sill, 
gazing steadfastly out ; and after waiting for a 
moment for a reply that did not come, Jessie 
went on : 

“ I hope the two of you will be united in 
the holy and sanctified ‘ bonds of hemlock ’ 
soon, for I’m desperately anxious to go to a 
wedding. Alas! Nina, when Charley’s mar- 
ried, you and I will have to wear the willow. I 
expect to break my heart for him ! it ain’t 
often one finds so good-looking a cousin. But, 
dear me, Nina ! what’s the matter — are you ill ? ” 

Her head had fallen on her arm, resting on 
the window^ while the other lay stricken by 
her side. Jessie sprang forward and raised 
her head. Every trace of color had faded from 
her face, and the light had died out in her eyes. 

“ Charley ! Charley ! Oh, dear me ! she will 
faint, do try and carry her out to the air ! ” ex- 
claimed Jessie, in dismay. 

“ No ! oh no, no ! ” she said, in a hushed 
voice, raising her arms blindly to push me 
away. 


Courting Ones Cousin. 81 

I drew back, grieved and astonished, while 
Jessie stood regarding her in silent surprise. 

“ It is nothing. I can walk now — come 
Jessie! ’’she said, faintly. Then, seeing how 
grieved and anxious I looked, she looked up 
in my face, and smiled slightly, as she said : 
“ Don’t look so frightened, Cousin Charley, it 
is only a sudden dizziness. I must see and con- 
gratulate Marguerite!” 

She was gone before I could reply, leaving 
me to ruminate over my new-found happiness. 

When we were all assembled round the table, 
I noticed that Nina was absent. Jessie said 
she had a headache ; and though I saw Ned 
looked exceedingly dissatisfied with the excuse, 
yet he was forced to be content. 

Another fortnight passed away, and I was 
perfectly well once more. During that time, 
Ned devoted himself most assiduously to Nina, 
who remained for a time very pale and still, 
for some (to me) unknown cause. But, at 
last, yielding either to his or to Marguerite’s 
persuasions, Nina suffered herself to be coaxed 
into good temper and cheerfulness once more ; 
and finally consented to become Mrs. Edward 
Cardiff on the same day her cousin became 
Mrs. Charles Gordon. Jessie, too, much to our 


82 


Courting One's Cousin. 


surprise, concluded to become a bride on the 
same day, and a merrier party were never as- 
sembled than that which met beneath the old 
roof-tree, to do honor to the three brides. 

One evening, about a week after our mar- 
riage, as Marguerite — my Marguerite now — 
and I sat talking over things past and gone, she 
suddenly laughed and said : 

“ Charley, do you know what was the matter 
with Nina, that time she was ill? ” 

“ Me ! what a question ! How should I 
know ? ” 

“ Oh, you simpleton ! never to guess. Why 
Charley dear, she was in love with you ! ” 

“ With me ? What nonsense, Marguerite ! ” 
“ Indeed, then, there’s no nonsense about it, 
for she was ; and she thought you loved her too, 
until she found out we were to be married. 
Men are certainly stupid creatures ! Why, 
Charley, I knew it all the time, and thought 
she would certainly be your wife. Indeed, I con- 
sider myself very fortunate to have got you at 
all under the circumstances ! ” 

Hhought of Nina’s strange agitation on the 
day our engagement was announced, and a new 
light dawned upon me. 

“ But she married Ned!” said I, doubtfully. 


Courting One s Cousin. 83 

“Of course, she did. You wouldn’t have 
her break her heart for you, would you ? She 
confessed all about it to Ned, like a good, sen- 
sible little girl, as she is, and delivered up to 
him a likeness and a lock of your hair, which 
she got somehow. Ned pitched them both in 
the fire, consigning you, I have no doubt, to 
still warmer quarters. And so Nina’s made 
up her mind to do without you, which was the 
best thing she could do under the circum- 
stances ! ” 

****** 

Dear reader, if you ever wish to spend a 
quiet summer in the country, come with us to 
Ashfield. You will rarely find a happier home 
than ours, and I and my wife will be delighted 
to see you.- Won’t you, Marguerite ? 


A TALE OF THE PAST 


It was a sultry summer night, in the year 
of grace 1566. The moon struggled dimly 
through the dark clouds, shedding a faint 
watery light over the narrow, dark streets of 
the goodly city of Edinburgh, now almost 
totally deserted, save by. the night-watch, who 
went prowling about, seeking “ whom they 
might devour.” 

The great city bell had just tolled the hour 
of midnight, when two men emerged from a 
stately-looking mansion, and walked leisurely 
along High street. The younger of the two 
was a slight stripling — a mere youth, whose 
saucy face, and jaunty air, and rich garments 
bespoke him to be what he was, the page of 
some gay courtier. His companion was tall 
and slight, with a symmetrical and graceful 
figure, and an air so noble and commanding, 


A Tale of the Past. 


85 


that it needed no second glance to tell he was 
some great peer of the land. He was muffled 
in a long, dark cloak, from beneath which, at 
intervals, could be seen the flash of a sword. 
A mask of black velvet, after the fashion of 
the times, concealed his face. 

“ Past midnight,” said the tall cavalier, as 
the bell sounded, “ faith, Andrew, ’tis a merry 
hour for so grave a personage , as I to be abroad. 
Dost know, I have some thought of quitting 
the world, and donning the cowl of a monk,” 
he added, with a laugh. 

“What a friar thou wouldst make,” said the 
youth, with a chuckle. 

“ What have we here ? Ha ! this sounds of 
merry-making,” said the cavalier, pausing sud- 
denly before an unpretending-looking dwell- 
ing, half hidden amid the luxuriant foliage 
of a garden, in which it stood. “Come, An- 
drew, it behooves thee and me to look into this 
matter.” 

They noiselessly entered the garden, and, 
sheltered by an arch of vines, stood unper- 
ceived under one of the windows. It was open 
to admit the night air, and two girls, one young 
and transcendently beautiful, the other older 
and plainer, sat gazing out. From where they 


86 


A Tale cf the Past. 


stood, the cavalier akd fits attendant could see 
them both plainly, and stih remain themselves 
unseen. 

“By St. Andrew!” cried tall cavalier, 
enthusiastically, “ a perfect Yen us. What 
eyes, what hair, how fair a face ? I am ” 

“ For the thousandth time most desperately 
in love, my lord,” said the boy, finishing the 
sentence. 

“ Thou art a forward varlet, sirrah. But hist, 
they speak.” 

“And so, Jean, thou hast been to court,” 
said the younger and fairer of the two. 

“That I have, Annot. Mother Mary ! if I 
could but tell thee all I saw there. There was 
the Queen, looking like an angel, with a smile 
for everyone, and her three Maries with her, 
flashing with jewels. There was the Earl of 
Moray, the Queen’s brother, and the King, 
and ” 

“Oh, the King.' the King! tell me about 
him,” said Annot, clapping her hands, in eager 
delight. 

“Why, King Henry, Lord Darnley, have 
you never seen him ?” said the other in sur 
prise. 

“ Never,” replied pretty Annot. 


87 


A Tale of the Past. 

“’Tis no fault of his, then, Mistress Annot,” 
said Jean, laughing, “for should his bonnie 
black eyes ever rest on thee, thou art likely 
soon to be better acquainted 1 ” 

“Tush ! what care I for him?” said Annot, 
petulantly. “ Women say he is handsome.” 

“ And men deny it, which proves the women 
are right,” said Jean ; “he is the handsomest 
noble in the kingdom, saving my Lord of 
Bothwell. Marry ! if thou hadst seen him, 
sitting so proud and handsome, making love 
to the maids of honor before the very eyes of 
the Queen ! ” 

“’Tis said he cares not for her. I marvel 
at it, , and she is lovely,” said Annot, looking 
thoughtfully into the moonlight. 

“ Dost thou not know ’tis the court fashion 
for each noble to care for the wife of his neigh- 
bor more than his own,” said Jean. “There is 
the handsome Earl of Bothwell, whose wife, 
Lady Jane Gordon, has gone mad, and dwells 
in her father’s Highland castle, whilst he is 
here, the gayest noble in the court of Mary. 
So ’tis with all the rest. From my Lord 
Darnley down,, they care not a rush for their 
own wives.” 

“My faith! Master John Knox himself 


88 


A Tale of the Past . 

never spoke a truer word,” whispered the tah 
cavalier in the ear of his companion, who, while 
he listened to the conversation, was shaking 
with inward laughter. 

“ How I should like to see the King!” said 
An not, after a pause. 

“ If she is not gratified, Andrew, ’twill be no 
fault of mine,” again whispered the masked 
noble to his delighted attendant. 

“ Pray Heaven, Annot, thou may’st never 
meet so famous a gallant,” said Jean. “ What 
would Master Ainslie do if His Grace spirited 
you away.” 

“Never fear, winsome Jeanie,” said Annot, 
laughingly, shaking back her golden hair. “ His 
Grace would never think of so lowly a maiden 
as I, and if he did, ’twould be all the same to 
Annot Craig. What care I for prince - or peas- 
ant?” 

She danced gayly toward the door, singing 
merrily as she went, the old Scotch ballad : 

“ My love is layed upone ane knycbt.” 

The masked cavalier stepped from the shrub- 
bery, as he Saw her approach, and whispering 
to the page, “ Remain here until I call thee,” 
approached the path where she stood ; remov 


A Tale of the Past . 




ing his mask, he drew his hat down over his 
brow, and, leaning against a tree, awaited her 
approach. 

Few, even amid the bright beauties of the 
court, could have looked fairer than did Annot 
Craig, as she stood in the soft moonlight, her 
golden hair falling over her white shoulders; 
for, contrary to the custom of the time, she 
wore no ruff. Her blue eyes shone like stars, 
and the bloom on the sunny side of a peach 
was not more bright than the glow on cheek 
and lip. Very lovely she looked, and so the 
young noble, for such he evidently was, seemed 
to think — judging from the look of admiration 
in his bold, dark eyes. 

Suddenly turning round, she perceived him, 
and uttering an exclamation of joy, she sprang 
forward, and threw her white arms round his 
neck, as she exclaimed : 

“Henry, dear Henry, welcome.” 

“Now, by St. Bothan ! if this is not affec- 
tionate, I should like to know what is?” said 
the young cavalier to himself. 

Surprised by his silence, the young girl 
looked up into the dark, handsome face, that 
almost touched her own, and with a cry of 
astonishment on discovering a stranger, she 


96 


A Tale of the Past. 

strove to disengage herself from the arms that 
now enclasped her. 

“Nay, my lady bird, fear naught,” he said, 
in his low, musical voice. “I thought thou 
knewest me.” 

“ I pray thee, sir, release me,” said Annot, 
blushing, and alarmed ; “ I thought thou wast 
Henry.” 

“And so I am Henry, pretty one.” 

“ But not my Henry,” she said half laugh- 
ingly, for his courteous manners reassured her ; 
“thou art some great noble, I judge,” she added, 
glancing at his princely form and rich dress, 
“ and he is only a lieutenant in the royal guard.” 

“ And thy lover, is it not so, pretty Annot ? ” 

“Where didst thou learn my name?” she 
said, blushingly, evading the question. 

“Dost fancy the fame of thy beauty has not 
reached the court ere this ? ” he said, passing his 
fingers, with the utmost nonchalance, through 
her sunny tresses. “ Often have I heard of fair 
Annot Craig, but little did I dream, until to- 
night, she was so surpassingly lovely.” 

Annot blushed with pleasure, and looking up 
in his handsome face, said, archly : 

“And which among the gallant nobles of 
the court has honored poor Annot Craig with a 


A Tale of the Past . 91 

visit on her birth-night ? How shall I call 
thee, sir knight ? ” 

“ Whatever pleasest thee best, gentle Annot ; 
thy lover, if thou wilt.” 

“ Nay, my lord, tease me not. I would know 
thy name.” 

“Annot, Annot!” called the shrill voice of 
good Dame Craig, “ ’tis time thou wert a-bed, 
child. St. Mary ! who art thou, sirrah ? ” She 
added, in a tone of mingled anger and amaze- 
ment, as her eyes fell on the stately form of the 
youth. 

“ The godly Master John Knox,” replied the 
cavalier, mimicking the sanctimonious twang of 
the famous reformer so well that Annot bit 
her lip to repress a burst of laughter. 

“ Lie not to me, sirrah ! Begone to thy boon 
companions ; and thou, Annot Craig, follow 
me,” said the angry matron, turning away. 

“ One moment, fairest Annot,” he said, .gen- 
tly, taking her hand ; “ may I not see thee 
again to-morrow evening ? Nay, I will take 
no refusal,” he added, as she laughingly shook 
her head. “ Annot, my dream, my hope, 
my life, until to-morrow, farewell.” And very 
nonchalantly the gay wooer pressed his lips 
to her flushed cheek, and turned away. 


92 


A Tale of the Past. 

Annot watched his tail, graceful form as he 
leisurely walked away, with a strange throb- 
bing at her heart which she had never known 
before. And that night her dreams were 
haunted by a vision of a pair of deep, dark eyes, 
strangely like those of the handsome stranger. 

Shrewish Dame Craig scolded more the 
next day than she had ever do'ne before in her 
life, for never had Annot committed so many 
blunders. But they fell unheeded on the ear 
of her pretty daughter, in whose memory that 
low, musical voice was floating, before whose 
eyes everything seemed changing into the 
dark, handsome face of her unknown lover. 
Never in all her life did she remember so long 
a day, never had she waited so impatiently 
for the approach of evening before. 

The sun sank at last behind the distant hill- 
tops, and the ladye moon rose in silvery radi- 
ance in the blue arch of heaven. Dame Craig 
sat dozing in her elbow chair, and Annot, with 
burning cheeks and palpitating heart, stood at 
the window tapping her little foot impatiently 
on the rush-strewn floor, and half wondering 
why she should so long for the coming of one. 
of whose very existence she was ignorant the 
day before. 


93 


A Tale of the Past. 

Suddenly she gave a quick start and drew 
her breath rapidly. The crimson deepened in 
her cheek, and her eye lit up with a soft light 
as she beheld the slight, graceful figure and 
white, waving plumes of her courtly suitor. 
He leaned against a tree, and wrapping his 
cloak closer around him, folded his arms and 
stood, awaiting her coming. 

For a moment she hesitated. Would it be 
quite right to meet this gallant stranger, who 
might be some great lord for all she knew ? 
There was a moment’s struggle between the 
head and heart; but the heart triumphed, and 
murmuring to herself, “ Only for this once,” 
she glided softly from the house and was 
clasped in his arms ere she was aware of his 
approach. 

“ Only this once,” she had said when she 
had met him, and “only this once,” she re- 
peated day after day, unable to resist his low 
voice and pleading eyes. Wandering with 
him in the moonlight, her white fingers stray- 
ing amid his jetty locks, she listened while he 
spoke of a fairer home than she had ever 
known, where every luxury wealth could pur- 
chase would be hers. Many things she learned 
from him, but never once his name In vain 


94 


A Tale of the Past. 

he urged her to fly with him. She could only 
turn away from those dear, dark eyes, and 
:ling to him and weep ; but she could not — 
would not consent. 

There was one who watched with restless 
anxiety the rose hue fading from Annot’s fair 
face, her listless step, and bright, eyes growing 
dim with weeping. It was Henry Ainslie, her 
former lover, whom she had of late almost for- 
gotten for her bewildering suitor. In vain he 
strove to penetrate the mystery of her con- 
duct. Annot met him with cold indifference ; 
for day and night but one image filled her mind. 

One day as she sat in the yellow sunlight, 
not more bright than her golden hair, stroking 
the plumage of her pet blackbird, and thinking 
how much it was like his glossy black hair, she 
was startled by a footstep. Looking up, she 
beheld Henry' Ainslie. 

Without noticing him, save by that one look, 
she dropped her eyes, and again began caress- 
ing her bird. 

“ Annot,” he said, chilled by her cold re- 
ception, “ dearest Annot, why hast thou be- 
come so changed of late ? ” 

“ I have not changed that I know of,” she 
saic( carelessly. 


A Tale of the Past. 


95 


“It was not thy wont to receive me thus, 
Annot,” he said, sadly ; “ those averted eyes, 
that cold voice used not to be my greeting.” 

“ What wouldst thou have ? ” she exclaimed 
impatiently; “lovers’ raptures grow tiresome 
after a while. Dost expect I will throw my- 
self into thine arms every time we meet ? ” 

“ Not into mine, mayhap,” he answered, bit- 
terly ; “ but into those of thy courtly wooer, 
from whose lips each word of love is neither 
more nor less than an insult.” 

“ And darest thou, sirrah, speak to me 
thus ? ” she exclaimed, springing to her feet, 
with burning cheeks, her eyes filling with a 
dusky fire. “ Begone ! I will not hear another 
word from thee ! ” 

She raised her small hand passionately, and a 
magnificent ruby sparkled in the sunlight. 

Ainslie’s face, as he gazed upon it, grew 
deadly pale. Springing forward, in spite of 
her struggles, he drew it from her finger, and 
gazed upon it with dilating eyes. On it was 
inscribed the legend : 

“ Like this ring my love is endless.” 

“ From whom didst thou get this trinket ? 
Answer me. Was it from thy lover ?” he said, 


96 


A Tale of the Past. 


grasping her by the arm so fiercely that she 
writhed in his strong grasp. 

“ Let me go. Man — demon — release me !” 
she cried, struggling to release herself. 

He cast her from him, and hurling the ring 
far over the cliffs, confronted her with eyes 
that seemed fairly blazing. 

“ Annot Craig, by all thou holdest dear, here 
and in heaven, I conjure thee to tell me who 
gave thee this ring ! ” 

“One I love. His name I know not,” she 
said, boldly — but slightly overawed by his fren- 
zied manner. 

He saw she spoke the truth ; and with one 
keen, scathing glance of intense scorn, he 
turned and left her. 

That evening, amid the shadow of the vines, 
she met her lover. Again, with his own seduct- 
ive eloquence, he urged her to go with him, or 
she would never see him again. He would tell 
her all she wished to know if she would con- 
sent ; the clergyman was ready to unite them ; 
his hand — his fortune — all were hers, if she 
would but be his. And Annot, feeling that 
without him there was nothing in the wide 
world worth living for, promised at last to fly 
with him the following night. 


97 


A Tale of the Past. 

They parted amid the dewy vines, as he 
whispered, for the last time ; and Annot sat 
with her blue eyes fixed on the ground, think- 
ing of the happiness awaiting her, when a 
rustling of the bushes made her look up, and 
she beheld standing before her Henry Ainslie, 
with such burning eyes, ghastly face and fiercely 
clenched hands, that she almost shrieked with 
affright. 

For a moment she stood before him, pale 
with fear ; then pride came to her aid, and draw- 
ing herself up, she demanded, haughtily : 

“How now, sirrah? Why art thou ever 
dogging my steps after this fashion ?” 

“So thou art to be wedded to-morrow, and 
knoweth not the name of him thou art to 
marry ? Gadso ! a right merry bridal ’twill be. 
I warrant me, ’twill puzzle the priest who is to 
unite you to count how many scores of times he 
has performed the same ceremony for thy gay 
lover.” 

“ Silence, and begone ! I will not listen to 
thy foul words ! ” exclaimed Annot, angrily, 
stamping her little foot. 

“ Mayhap thou wouldst believe me, didst 
know his name,” said Ainslie, with an inexplic- 
able smile. 


9 8 


A Tale of the Past. 


“ Canst thou tell it ? ” she said, breathlessly. 

“Yes; that ring he gave thee once sparkled 
on the hand of the fairest queen in Europe,” 
said Ainslie, slowly. 

“And he ” said Annot, catching her 

breath quick and short. 

“ And he whom thou wilt wed to-morrow,” 
said Ainslie, with a bitter laugh, “ is Henry • 
Stuart, Lord of Darnley, Duke of Albany, and 
King of Scotland ! ” 

She did not shriek nor exclaim, as he thought 
she would have done ; but every trace of color 
failed from her face, her eyes grew fixed and 
rigid, and the hand he caught to sustain her, 
felt in his like ice. 

“ Annot ! Annot ! ” he cried, in alarm ; “for 
the love of Heaven, do not look so dreadful ! 
Speak, Annot, dearest Annot.” 

“ Leave me, leave me,” she said, hoarsely, 
withdrawing her hand, and sinking into a seat. 

. Sadly he turned away. Once he paused, and 
looked back. She was lying on the damp grass, 
in such a posture of utter, utter despair, that his 
heart bled for her. Not trusting himself to 
look again, he hurried away. 

Once again the moonlight fell brightly over 
the city, shedding its beams as gloriously over 


A Tale of the Past. 


99 


Dame Craig’s humble dwelling as on the towers 
of the palace of Holyrood. A young man, 
whose tall and graceful figure there was no mis- 
taking, sprang lightly over the low hedge, and 
approached the well-known trysting-place. It 
was the gay, the handsome, the profligate Darnley. 

Not long had he to wait ; for, gliding in 
her white robes through the moonlight, as on 
the night when he had first beheld her, came 
the slender, girlish figure of Annot Craig. 
Darnley sprang forward, and would have 
clasped her in his arms ; but she evaded him, 
and taking his hands, small and white as a 
lady’s, in both hers, she laid her cold cheek on 
them, and said, sadly : 

“ No, my lord : thee and me must be strangers 
from henceforth. For the past I forgive thee, 
but we must never meet again. How I have 
loved thee — how I still love thee — no words of 
mine can tell. Ere to-morrow’s sun sets thou 
wilt have forgotten me ; but, O King Henry, 
when shall I forget thee ? ” 

Her wild, passionate tone touched the heart 
of the thoughtless Darnley. His clear face 
flushed in the moonlight, as he said : 

“ So thou knowest me, fair Annot ? Well, 
what matters it ? High-born ladies would be 


IOO 


A Tale of the Past. 

proud of the love thou rejectest. Thou wilt 
come with me,” he said, encircling her slight 
form, and bending down until his raven curls 
mingled with hers, 

“ Never — never, lord earl ; this moment we 
part forever. Farewell ! and may the holy angels 
guard thee.” 

And not daring to loot at the dear face 
bending over her, she broke from the arms that 
clasped her in a parting embrace, and fled 
wildly into the house. 

% % * * * 

Months sped on ; and Annot Craig moved 
through the sunny rooms of the old home- 
stead — but no longer the Annot of other days. 
The snow that lay on the bleak hill-tops was 
not whiter than her once blooming face. Her 
light, elastic step, and clear, merry voice no 
longer made music in hearts that loved her. 
White and still, she was but the shadow of the 
once happy Annot Craig. Often she heard of 
Darnley, but never anything in his praise. He 
was still the same winning, fascinating libertine 
he had been . when he won her heart. Henry 
Ainslie was often at her side, too ; but never 
could he win from her any other token of re- 
gard save a sad smile. 


A Tale of the Past. 


IOI 


One bright February morning he entered the 
room where An not sat, in the full glow of the 
bright spring sunshine. His face was deadly 
pale — his eyes wild and excited. 

“ Mother of grace ! Henry, what is it? " she 
asked, in alarm. 

“ O Annot ! Lord Darnley, the young king, 
is dead !” 

“ Dead ! ” she gasped, growing so faint and 
giddy that she was forced to grasp the chair for 
support. “ How — when — where?" 

“ They murdered him, Annot — basely as- 
sassinated him ! ” he exclaimed, and then fol- 
lowed the sad story of the dark and cruel 
murder in the lonely house in the Kirk of 
Field. 

It was weeks before she recovered from the 
shock his words had given her. But she did 
recover ; and, as years rolled on, the memory of 
her past sorrows was almost effaced. 

The fidelity and long-tried affection of 
Henry Ainslie was rewarded at length by the 
hand of Annot ; and though she loved him 
not with the wild passion she had once felt for 
the splendid Darnley, it was with a strong and 
more enduring affection — a love-U:hat wavered 
not until the end. 


A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 


“ Hark ! the herald angels sing, 

Glory to the new-born king ! ” 

rang out from the choir, and the organist, a 
slender, pale-faced girl, with grave, beautiful 
brown eyes, joined in the anthems, all her soul 
in the triumphal words : 

“ Joyful all your voices rise, 

Sing the anthem of the skies : 

With the celestial hosts proclaim 
Christ is born in Bethlehem." 

It was the last piece of the rehearsal. The 
choristers threw down their books, only too glad 
to get away. The organist alone remained, to 
play over once more a new voluntary. 

“ Good night, Miss Englehart;” “Good 
night, Miss Katherine!” “Good night, Katie, 
and a merry Christmas eve ! ” were the cries, as 
one by one, men and maids, left the choir, and 
went down the stairs and out into the bright 
white Christmas night. 


A Merry Christmas. 


103 


Miss Englehart’s gravely smiling lips and 
gentle brown eyes answered them all. A mo- 
ment and she was alone, only the white, pierc- 
ing moonlight streaming through the painted 
oriel over the altar and the one dim light below. 
A flare of gas lit the organ loft, but this she low- 
ered, and with rapt face and dreamy eyes she 
played over and over again the jubilant new 
voluntary. She might have gone on for hours — 
she was quite capable of it — but a piteous yawn 
from the boy at the bellows recalled her from 
heaven to earth. 

“ Oh ! ” she said, stopping suddenly, with a 
half laugh, “ I had forgotten you, Jimmy. Well, 
I won’t play any more ; and here, take this for 
your Christmas box.” 

Jimmy jumped up and seized the proffered 
greenback with glistening eyes. 

“ Thanky, Miss Katie — merry Christmas, 
please, ma’am,” cried the boy, seizing his cap. 
“Ah! she’s a brick, she is,” said Jimmy to 
himself, as he clattered down the steep stairway. 
“ Nobody among all the singers ever thinks of 
the boy that blows the bellowses, ’cept her. 
Don’t I jest hope she won’t marry that long- 
leneed rooster that ’scorts her there sometimes 
and leave the choir for good.” 


104 A Merry Christmas. 

Still a few moments longer lingered Miss 
Englehart on her knees ; then she, too, hurried 
down the stairway and out into the shining cold- 
ness of the starry December night. High and 
white and cold lay the Christmas snow. No 
“green yule” this year to make fat the kirk- 
yard. Cloudless and blue spread the sky, filled 
with sparkling Christmas stars. Could that 
other night, so long ago, when the shepherd 
watched his flock in the green Galilee hills, 
“ and the glory of the Lord shone around them,” 
have been one whit fairer than this ? 

“ Katie.” 

With a great start the girl came back over 
eighteen centuries, from Bethlehem to the town 
of Southport. A tall man had started up in her 
path and spoke her name. 

“ You, papa !” the girl said, in doubt and sur- 
prise, the color that had arisen to her face fading 
out. 

“I, Katie.” He drew her hand under his arm 
with a laugh. Did you think it was Harry 
Hatton ? Well, it is almost as good, for I 
have come to talk to you of him. 

Miss Bnglehart looked up — a sudden trouble 
in the brown, tender eyes. 

“I thought you had done talking of him, 


A Merry Christmas. 105 

papa,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “ I 
thought yesterday had finished the subject for- 
ever.” 

“ Let me see. What was it I did say yester- 
day ?” says Mr. Englehart, blandly. “Ah ! I 
remember !. That my stiff-necked, doting old 
client, John Hatton, had made up his senile 
mind to forgive his runaway daughter and dis- 
inherit Harry. Under these circumstances I 
very naturally told you that you were to meet 
Harry no more. You’re a good girl, Katie — a 
very good girl !” Mr. Englehart pats paternally 
the little hand on his arm — “ and at any sacri- 
fice to yourself you would have obeyed me, I 
am sure. My dear, it affords me great pleas- 
ure to inform you that the sacrifice will not be 
required.” 

“ Papa ! ” the girl cries, her whole face lighting 
up, “you will let me marry Harry, poor as he 
is. Oh, papa ! I am not afraid of poverty — not 
afraid of work ; neither is Harry, and ” 

“ Oh, pooh ! my dear ; pooh ! nothing of the 
kind. My opinion on that point has never 
changed, and never will. No, no, it is some- 
thing infinitely better than that. Old Hatton 
died suddenly last night, before making the 
proposed new will, and all is Harry’s.” 


io6 A Merry Christmas. 

Katherine Englehart uttered a faint, startled 
exclamation. 

‘‘And the old will, leaving all to Harry, 
stands, and his only daughter is disinherited, 
and left out.” 

“ Left without a stiver, my dear, and serves 
her right, say I. She ran away with a worthless 
scamp, against her father’s will, and, like all 
fools, has paid the penalty of her folly. She sup- 
ports herself and her five children by sewing, so 
I have been told, and you know what sort of 
support that means. Serves her right, I say 
again. John Hatton has done what it was his 
duty to do — what I would have done in his place 
— cast her off and left her to starve with the 
pauper she chose.” 

In the moonlight the face of Miss Englehart 
grows white as the snow itself ; but she walks 
on and does not say a word. 

“However,” cries her father cheerfully, “that 
is not what I want to say. Rose Hatton’s case 
need never be yours. All is Harry’s ; and ex- 
cept his poverty, I never had any objection to 
Harry as a son-in-law. So when he comes to 
wish you a merry Christmas, my dear Katie, I 
give you leave to name the day.” 

A strange light comes into the brown eyes ; 


A Merry Christmas. 107 

a strangely resolute expression sets the pretty, 
soft-cut mouth. 

“ Is he coming to-night, papa ? ” 

“You will find him, I have not the slightest 
doubt, at the house before you. It would be 
hypocrisy for him to profess any grief for that 
old skin-flint uncle ; and Harry is no hypocrite.” 

“ You have seen him since his uncle’s death ?” 

“ Certainly, Katie ; and was the first to con- 
gratulate him. ‘ I trust you withdraw your ob- 
jections to my suit now, sir ! ’ he says to me, in 
his hearty way ; ‘ I am John Hatton’s heir, after 
all ! ’ A trifle hot-headed is Harry, but a good 
fellow in the main — oh ! a very good fellow ! I 
have no doubt, Katie, he will make you an ex- 
cellent husband.” 

“ He means to keep this fortune, then ?” his 
daughter says, and says it in so odd a voice that 
her father looks at her, puzzled. 

“ Keep it ! What do you mean ? What should 
he do but keep it ? By George ! I should think 
he did mean to keep it — a cool hundred thou- 
sand, if a dollar ! May I ask what you mean 
by the question ? ” 

“Not now, papa, please; I will see Harry 
first,” she answers, in the same strange voice 
very quiet voice, though it startles her father. 


108 A Merry Christinas. 

I 

“ Look here, my girl,” he says sternly. “ 1 
know you of old — know your high-drawn Quix- 
otic notions about things in general, and points 
of honor and conscience in particular. I warn 
you, don’t let us have any of them here, if you 
want to be Harry Hatton’s wife. The lad has 
come fairly by his fortune — let him keep it in 
peace ! ” 

They are at the house with the last words — 
words harshly and menacingly spoken. They 
go together into the parlor, and there, as Mr. 
Englehart has predicted, they find young Hat- 
ton alone. A tall and proper fellow, this Harry 
Hatton, with a handsome face., and eager, happy 
eyes. 

“ At last,” he cries, coming forward, both 
hands outstretched, “ just as patience was ceasing 
to be a virtue. Thank you for bringing her, 
Mr. Englehart. Come to the register, Katie, 
and warm those cold little paws. Has our state- 
ly papa been telling you the good news?” 

He draws her forward, eyes, smile, all alight 
with love and joy. Last night he was in de- 
spair — last night this cozy parlor had been for- 
bidden ground. Sorrow and weeping had en- 
dured for the night, but joy had come with the 
morning. This time yesterday he had been a 


A Merry Christmas. 


1 09 


beggar, and Katie had been refused him — to* 
night he was a rich man, and Katie might be 
his for the asking. Papa Englehart, after a 
genial, father-in-law sort of nod, had slipped 
away and left them together. 

“ Why don’t you speak, little girl ? ” cries 
jubilant Harry; “or has the power of speech 
been frozen in you? Wish me a merry Christ- 
mas, Katie, and congratulate me on my capital 
fortune. ” 

She looks up at him with eyes full of wistful 
love. 

“ I wish you a merry Christmas with all my 
heart, Harry ; but congratulate you on what ?” 

“ Why, hasn’t the dear old dad been telling 
you ? Then wonders never will cease. Oh, 
pshaw ! Of course he has told you that my 
uncle is dead ! ” 

“Poor old Mr. Hatton — ye s, I know that he 
is dead.” 

“ And all is mine, Katie, all. And next April 
the old house shall have a new mistress, and 
Harry Hatton shall have a wife. Why don’t 
you speak ? Why don’t you smile ? What is 
the matter with you to-night?” 

“ Harry, you mean to keep this inheritance?” 

“ Keep it ?” Harry looks at her in wonder. 


no 


A Merry Christmas. 

“ By Jove, what a question ! What should I do 
with it but keep it ?” 

“ Resign it to Rose Hatton — Mrs. Andrews 
now — to whom it rightfully belongs.” 

“ A most likely idea, and one quite worthy of 
Katie Englehart. I have had poverty and 
hard work for seven-and -twenty years, and now 
when the golden shower falls in my arms I am 
to resign it to Rose Andrews and her drunken 
brute of a husband! No, no, Katie; in the 
nineteenth century men keep all they get, and 
they ask for more.” 

“ So I perceive,” she says, quietly, though she 
is trembling as she stands. She draws a ring off 
her finger and lays it on the table before him. 
“ Our engagement ends to-night, then, Mr. Hat- 
ton. Here is your ring.” 

He stands gazing at her, utterly bewildered. 

“ Katie,” he exclaims, “you don’t mean this ?” 

“ I mean it, Harry. If papa had let me, I 
would have been your wife in poverty — oh, so 
gkidly — and worked for you and with you with 
all my heart ; but now — now that you take the 
portion of that woman, worse than widowed — 
of those children, worse than fatherless, I would 
die first.” 

The gentle eyes flashed, into the pale cheeks 


A Merry Christmas. 


m 


an indignant glow leaped, and the soft, tender 
voice rang out as he had never heard it before. 

“ But this is all nonsense, Katie,” he cried im- 
patiently ; “ sheer nonsense ! ask your father ” 
• — a smile crossed Katie’s lips — “ ask anybody if 
this money is not fairly mine. Rose Hatton, a 
headstrong, obstinate school-girl, elopes with a 
scoundrel who only seeks her father’s money, 
and she is disinherited, as she deserved. I am 
his sister’s son, and to me what she resigned 
has fallen.” 

“ Her father forgave her before he died, and 
would have made another will if another day 
had been given him.” 

*• Look here, Katie,” says Hatton, still impa- 
tiently ; “ I will seek out my cousin, Rosie, and 
if she leaves her beast of a husband, I’ll provide 
for her and the little ones. Will that satisfy 

yy 

you ? 

“ I know Rose Hatton,” Katie answers. 
“ She was proud and obstinate, and would die 
of starvation sooner than accept as charity what 
is hers by right.” 

He comes close and stands before her, his 
eyes flashing angrily. 

“ I must either choose between resigning you 
or my uncle’s fortune ? ” 


Ii2 A Merry Christmas. 

• You must.” 

“If I resign it, I am a pauper as before, and 
your father will order me from his doors. Y ou 
will not disobey your father, so in either case I 
am to lose you.” 

“ I love you, Harry,” she says with a gasp. 
“ I would wait ” 

“Thank you,” he says, with a short laugh t 
“ that is poor consolation. You are a woman, 
and waiting may be easy to you. I am a man k 
and don’t choose to wait. Since I must lose 
you in any case, I’ll not lose my money as well 
Good night, Miss Englehart. I wish you a 
very merry Christmas.” 

“ Harry ! ” she cries. But he is gone — gone 
in a fine fury, banging the street door after him 
— and it is her father, white with passion, who 
stands before her. 

****** 

Twice tire Christmas tide has come and gone 
— twice the joyful anthem of “ Peace on Earth, 
to Men Good Will,” has sounded down the 
stately aisles of St. Philip’s, and the third time 
is here. Once more it is Christmas Eve ; once 
more altar and pulpit are wreathed with ever- 
greens ; once more the voices of the choristers 
rise to the vaulted roof ; once more the slender, 


A Merry Christmas. I r 3 

pale-faced, brown-eyed organist sits at_ those 
pearl keys. But the face has a graver beauty, 
the dark eyes a sadder light than of old, and for 
the silks and sables of other days, her dress 
is deepest mourning, plain of make and poor of 
texture. 

The last piece is sung — something grand and 
old, and triumphant; and “ Good night, Miss 
Englehart,” one and all cry, as they flutter 
away and down the stairs. She smiles her fare- 
well, but lingers after they have gone, as is her 
custom ; and as her hands float over the keys, 
and her eyes rest on the music, she is thinking 
of another Christmas Eve, three years ago, and 
of the father and lover who stood by her side 
that night. 

She has lost them both — the lover then, 
never to hear or see since ; the father one year 
ago. A great financial crisis had come — had 
involved shrewd lawyer Englehart, and swamped 
him. Fie had broken down under the blow, 
and in less than three months after was dead 
and buried. He had never forgiven Katie her 
refusal of Harry Hatton ; he did not forgive her 
even on his deathbed. 

“If you had not been a fool with your scru- 
ples and whims,” he had said to her bitterly, 


H4 A Merry Christmas . 

“you need not have been a beggar to-day. 
Harry Hatton is married long ago, no doubt, to 
some wiser woman, and when I am gone you 
may earn your living as best you may.” 

They buried him, and Katherine had earned 
her living bravely and well. For years she had 
played the organ of St. Philip’s as a labor of 
love. Now it became a labor of necessity. Her 
salary as* organist and half-a-dozen piano pupils, 
gave her all she needed, and life went on some- 
how, and Christmas had come again. 

She dreaded Christmas — the old pain and 
struggle seemed to come all back afresh. She 
did not regret what she had done. Better lone- 
liness and poverty than ill-gotten gain — better 
lose her lover forever than become the wife of a 
man capable of wronging the living and the 
dead. She had lost him, but she had not ceased 
to love him. While she deplored his sins, her 
pure prayers followed him in his recklesk wan- 
derings over the world. 

She left the organ at last and slowly quitted 
the church. Unlike that other Christmas, no 
moon nor stars shone. White, soft, ceaseless 
the snow fell. She put up her umbrella and hur- 
ried home — the home of a boarding-house — took 
her belated and solitary supper, and ran up to 


i5 


A Mei'ry Christmas. i 

her own sitting-room. A fire burned in a grate 
and her piano — sole relic of former splendor — 
stood open with some new music upon it. Be- 
fore sitting down to her long practice, she went 
to the window and looked out. All the world 
was white, and still and ghostly, and faster and 
faster the snow was falling. As she stood, the 
tall, dark figure of a man opened the gate, and 
came plowing through the snow to the front 
door. 

“ One of the boarders,” she thought, “ belated 
as I was. How cross Mrs. White will be.” 

She left the window and went to the piano. 
Before she commenced her practice, and half 
unconsciously, she began softly to sing the old 
anthem : 

“ Hark ! the herald angels sing, 

Glory to the new-born King, 

Peace on earth, and mercy mild, 

God and sinners reconciled.” 

Then she stopped, conscious that the door 
had opened, and the intruder did not advance. 

“Come in,” she said, “and shut the door, 
please ; there is a drau ” 

She stopped with a low cry, but he took her 
at her word, shut the door and came forward. 

“ I have come back, Katie,” he said. “ Will 
you forgive me and shake hands ? ” 


1 1 6 A Merry Christmas. 

He took both hers without waiting for leave, 
and held them fast. 

“ I only reached America yesterday,” he went 
on. “ All these years I have been in Europe, 
trying to forget you and be happy, and I have 
neither forgotten you nor been happy. You 
were right and I was wrong. I have come back 
to tell you so, and to ask you if you have for- 
gotten me 9 ” 

“ Forgotten you ! ” she repeats, almost with a 
sob. “ Oh, my Harry ! my Harry ! ” 

“ I am no longer rich,” he says ; “ Rosie and 
the little ones are at the old homestead, and the 
drunken husband has drank himself to death. I 
tried to palter with my duty, Katie, before I 
went away — I sought out Rose and proffered 
her a portion of her father’s fortune. She was 
proud, as you told me she would be, and refused 
it with scorn. ‘ I am poor,’ she said, ‘ almost 
starving, but I will not take as a favor from you, 
Harry Hatton, that which is my right. Keep all 
or give all ! ’ I kept all, Katie, and if I could 
have forgotten you, might have kept all to the 
end. But I love you so well, my Katie, that I 
ask nothing but you for the rest of my life. We 
will be poor, but we will be together. Say you 
forgive me, Katie ; you have not said it yet- M 


A Merry Christmas . 1 1 7 

She said it then, holding him close, her happy 
tears dampening his already damp collar. 

“ You and I are to spend Christmas day with 
Rose,” he says presently, that first transport 
over. “ She’s as jolly a little soul as ever lived, in 
spite of all her troubles, and right glad to have 
done with matrimony forever. Who knows 
but that after eight years of it you may not 
echo her sentiments ! ” 

“ I think I will risk it, though,” says Miss En- 
glehart, looking at him, handsome, and big and 
brown, with adoring eyes. “Oh, Harry ! to 
think I did not know you, striding through the 
snow up to the gate. I was just thinking with 
ever so little of a pang, that no gift would -be 
mine this year, while all the time the best and 
dearest of all Christmas boxes was coming to 
me over the snow.” 

“Christmas has brought you your lover, and ' 
New Year shall bring you your husband,” says 
Harry. 

And the New Year did. 


MAGDALENA; 

Or, The Child of the Wreck. 


“ It is so stormy, so stormy. Oh, dear ! ” 

The words werp childish, and so was the 
speaker, one might think at a first glance ; but 
a second look at the pallid face, with its dark, 
earnest eyes^ and strange, thoughtful .look, 
would show that though twelve years had scarce 
passed over the head of little Magdalena, yet 
the soul within was not that of a common child. 
She stood at the window of the little cottage, 
gazing forth into the darkness without, now and 
then catching a glimpse of the white-capped 
waves, as a lurid glare of lightning illuminated 
for an instant the pitchy darkness. The shriek- 
ing of the wind, the roaring of the sea, and tlK 
appalling crash of the thunder, made the din and 
uproar without almost deafening. 

But within. the cottage all was quiet. In tlv* 


Magdalena. 1 1 9 

center of the floor stood a small round table, 
covered with a snow-white cloth, on which was 
spread bread, milk and cheese.- A bright, blaz- 
ing Are glowed and crackled on the hearth, fill- 
ing the room with genial light and heat. On a 
stool, in the chimney-corner, knitting busily, sat 
an old woman, never raising her eyes from her 
work, save now and then to listen to the din 
and uproar without. 

“It is so stormy ! so stormy !” repeated the 
child, clasping her hands, as a vivid flash of 
lightning blazed for a moment, followed by a 
peal of thunder so sharp and startling that in- 
voluntarily she sprang back. 

“ Were you speaking, Magdalena ?” said the 
old woman, raising her head. 

The girl made no reply, but resumed her 
place at the window. 

“ It is a dreadful night ! God aid all travel- 
ers ! ” said the old woman, as another peal of 
thunder made the cottage shake to its founda- 
tion. 

“ Agatha, where is Pierre ? ” said the child, 
suddenly turning from the window. 

“Where he always is, such nights as this,” re- 
plied the old woman, sharply — “out with the 
wreckers, And a good night’s work they’ll 


I 20 


Magdalena. 


make of it, too ; there’ll be plenty of food for 
fishes ere the sun rises, I warrant ! ” 

“ Dreadful ! ” said Magdalena, with a shudder, 

“ Dreadful, sure enough ! ” was the reply. “ 1 
fear he has the death of more than one of his 
fellow creatures to answer for. Holy saints ! I 
pray there may be no ship driven on the coast 
this wild night. Is the storm abating, do you 
think, Magdalena?” 

Still no reply from the child, who stood, with 
her white face glued, as it were, to the window, 
her- eyes straining out into the pitchy blackness 
beyond. Suddenly she sprang back with a sharp 
cry. 

“What’s the matter ?” said the old woman, 
springing to her feet in alarm. 

“Oh, mon Dieu ! the waves are breaking over 
Dead Man’s Reef!” almost shrieked the child, 
her eyes growing wild with fear. 

“ Holy Virgin ! Sure enough ! ” said dame 
Agatha, as she hobbled to the window and 
looked forth. 

A reef of huge rocks that stood erect, black 
and ghastly, in the distance, around which the 
waves were seething and foaming madly, and 
over which they at times broke, was the sight 
*-hat had so startled. Magdalena, 


Magdalena. i'll 

“ Hark ! what is that ?” she exclaimed, as the 
distant booming of a gun broke upon her ear, 
followed by another and another in rapid suc- 
cession. 

“ Tis the minute gun !”■ replied the old wo- 
man, her voice sinking to a thrilling whisper. 

The young girl listened for a moment to the 
quick reports of the gun, then she darted to the 
other side of the room, and knotting a shawl 
under her chin, she grasped a pole that stood 
in the corner, and turned toward the door. 

“ Magdalena ! Magdalena ! don’t go out to- 
night ! ” exclaimed the old woman, • in alarm. 
“For heaven’s sake, don’t go out to-night, or 
you will perish.” 

“No danger ; I am only going to the Look- 
out ! ” replied the fearless child, opening the 
door. 

“ Oh, my child ! my child ! Listen to the 
wind ! Grand Dieu ! it is dreadful ! ” cried the 
old woman with wild entreaty. 

“ Peace, Agatha !” said -Magdalena, imperi- 
ously ; “I will go ! There is no danger, I tell 
you. Farewell ! I will return soon ! ” and the 
girl disappeared. 

“ Sancta Maria, Mater Dolorosa ! ” ejaculated 
Agatha. “ Was ever woman so distressed as I ? 


i 2 2 Magdalena. 

That singular child ! I have never seen her 
like. May our Lady protect her to-night, out in 
this storm ! ” and dame Agatha resumed her 
seat, crouching over the fire. 

Suddenly, as if by magic, the whole beach 
was lighted up. A startled exclamation escaped 
the lips of the girl, as she leaned forward : 

“Mon Dieu ! the wreckers ! ” 

A dozen or more men now appeared, several 
of them bearing in their hands lighted torches. 
The red lurid light, contrasting with the bleak 
darkness, gave them the appearance of midnight 
demons on some work of death and destruc- 
tion. Magdalena bent down to regard them, 
evidently looking for someone she knew among 
them, when a sharp exclamation from one of 
them caused her to x look up. The firing had 
ceased, and the ship lay a broken wreck on the 
rocks. 

All was immediately bustle and confusion on 
the beach. The storm had now nearly subsided, 
and though the waves yet ran very high, several 
boats were launched, and the greater number of 
the wreckers started for the doomed ship. Two 
of those who had remained, stood apart from 
the others, gazing with the keenest interest after 
the rapidly receding boats. 


Magdalena. 


123 


“ A fine night’s work we’ll have of it,” said 
one, a short, thick-set, villainous-looking man, 
turning to his companion, a tall, dark, slightly- 
built young man, clad in the coarse garb of a 
fisherman. 

“That we will,” returned the other, “our 
pockets will be heavier this time to-morrow, 
than they are now, I trow. By’r Lady ! the 
storms are welcome visitors on our French 
coast.” 

“That they are,” said the other, “ and, by my 
faith, I pray we may have plenty of them, so 
that we may not starve for want of work' when 
the Count De Reville arrives. Fie and his fine 
young nephew, Adolphe, are sworn enemies of 
the wreckers. They have promised to have us 
all exterminated, root and branch.” 

“They’ll fail in that,” said the youth, with a 
short laugh. “ But what have we here — a dead 
body, by my faith ! Fla ! and here is another, 
and another. The carcasses are coming, let the 
vultures go to work.” 

And, stooping down, he coolly began to rifle 
the pockets of the drowned man. Suddenly, a 
hand was laid lightly on his arm. Starting up, 
he was confronted by the girl, Magdalena. 

“Magdalena! what in the name of all the 


1 24 Magdalena . 

fiends sent you here ? ” he exclaimed, startled 
and surprised. 

The girl made no reply, but stooping down, 
surveyed earnestly the insensible body at her 
feet. It was an old man, the thin gray locks 
hung damp and clammy around his pale and 
noble-looking face, still and rigid as that of a 
marble statue. She laid her hand on his heart, 
and then placed her ear to his mouth, and 
listened for a moment intently. At last she 
raised her head and said, with thrilling earnest- 
ness : 

“ Pierre, this man is not dead ! ” 

“ If he is not, he soon will be,” said the other, 
gruffly. “ Get out of this, Magdalena, and go 
home ! ” 

“ What do you mean to do with him ? ” said 
Magdalena, gazing earnestly in the face of the 
young man. 

“Never you mind,” said Pierre, angrily. 
“ Go home, I tell you ; this is no place for 
you, child.” 

“ What do you mean to do with him ? ” 
repeated the girl, with increasing earnestness 
— “will you murder him ? ” 

“ If you call pitching him into the wavfcs 
again murdering him,” said Pierre, ’ brutally, 


Magdalena. 125 

“ I will, for I intend sending him adrift as soon 
as I get the contents of his pockets.” 

“ Oh, Pierre, Pierre ! would you slay a fellow- 
being?” said Magdalena, in a voice of horror. 
“ Be merciful. See ! he moves, he revives ; 
come, Pierre, raise him, and bring him to the 
cottage.” 

“Go away, I tell you?” said Pierre, angrily ; 
“you have no business here — go ! ” 

“ No, I will not !” cried the girl, excitedly. “ I 
will not go. While I remain here you will not 
commit murder, so I will stay. Look, look ! he 
moves again. Oh, Pierre, Pierre ! for my sake 
will you not bring him home ? ” 

The young man hesitated ; this last appeal 
touched his heart, for rude, and rough, and 
guilty as he was, he still possessed one, and in 
it Magdalena held the largest place. The girl 
noticed this irresolution, and continued, with 
wild vehemence : 

‘“Pierre, Pierre ! raise him. He will die if he 
remains here much longer. See, the boats are 
coming. Oh, Mon Dieu ! he will die if he is 
?ot instantly, removed ; those dreadful-looking 
men will slay him ! ” 

Pierre hesitated no longer. Raising the appa- 
rently lifeless body on his shoulders,. he started 


26 


Magdalena. 


up the rocks, closely followed by Magdalena, 
who clambered after him, with the agility of a 
deer. As they entered the cottage, Agatha, who 
was on her knees, sprang to her feet. 

“Who is this?” demanded the old woman, 
fixing her small gray eyes keenly on the inani- 
mate form Pierre laid on the bed. 

“ Some old fellow the waves washed ashore,” 
answered Pierre, roughly. “ Magdalena, the 
little fool, insisted he was alive, and made me 
bring him here. Make your best of him now,” 
and Pierre turned to leave the room. 

“ Pierre, my son, do not go out again to- 
night,” said Agatha, laying her hand on the 
young man’s arm, and looking up anxiously in 
his dark, handsome face. 

“ Nonsense, mother,” said Pierre, opening the 
door, “ I must go. If that fellow is really alive, 
and begins to talk, see that your tongue does 
not run ahead of your wisdom,” and with this 
caution he quitted the cottage. 

With a sigh, good dame Agatha turned away, 
and approached the bed. Magdalena was bend- 
ing over him, with the keenest anxiety depicted 
on her face. As Agatha approached^she raised 
her head, and said, in a whisper : 

“He breathes still ; I think he will soon re- 


Magdalena . 


ii 7 

cover. Oh, how I hope he may ! But — what 
is the matter, Agatha — why do you tremble 
so ? ” 

Well might she exclaim ! The old woman 
stood quivering like a reed as her eyes fell on 
the senseless form before her. 

“ Oh, grand Dieu !” she ejaculated, at length, 
“ can I believe my eyes? Magdalena, my child, 
this is the Count De Reville ! ” 

“ The count ! and I have saved his life,” ex- 
claimed Magdalena, clasping her hands earnest- 
ly. “ And look, Agatha, he moves — see, he 
opens his eyes. He is safe ! he is safe ! ” 

“ Our Lady be praised ! ” said th$ old woman, 
devoutly, sinking on her kness by the bedside, 
while Magdalena hastened to apply all the cura- 
tives the cottage contained. Her efforts were 
crowned with success, and, in a short time, the 
old man was able to converse. His first demand 
was to know what had happened. Dame Agatha 
briefly informed him. 

“ Then, to this pretty girl I owe my life,” said 
the count, drawing Magdalena toward him, and 
passing his hand caressingly over her long, silky 
black hair. “ Your granddaughter, I presume, 
good dame ?” 

Agatha shook her head. "No,” she answered, 


128 


Magdalena. 

“ Magdalena is no kin of mine — she is a found- 
ling. One wild night, a ship was driven ashore 
on the rocks. Mon Dieu ! I sliall never forget 
it. Never before, nor since, until this night, did 
I see the waves break over Dead Man’s Reef. 
Several bodies were washed ashore, and among 
them we found a lady and a child, tied to a 
spar. The lady was dead, but the child was 
still living. Poor babe ! It was a pitiful sight 
to see it sobbing, as if its heart would break, and 
calling on its mother to awake. Poor lady ! she 
never woke again. I took the child home. On 
its dress we found the name, Magdalena. Since 
then I have taken care of her, and love her now 
as if she were my own child.” 

“ Well, good dame, as I wish to show my 
gratitude to her by something better than 
words, will you not let her come with me to the 
chateau ? ” 

** Part with Magdalena ? Holy saints, no. 
Why, we could never live without her,” said 
Agatha. 

“ But consider,” plead the old man, “of what 
advantage it will be to her. Here she will be 
but a poor fisher-girl ; with me she will be a 
lady. You can scarcely afford to have her 
taught to read. I will provide for her the very 


Ma & 129 

best masters. If you love her, as you say, you 
will not be selfish, but will sacrifice your own 
inclinations for her good.” 

“ Oh, Agatha, please let me go,” said Magda- 
lena, entreatingly looking up in the old woman’s 
face with her pleading eyes. 

“ Oh ! child, child ! what will Pierre say ? ” 
said Agatha, in a tone of distress. 

“He won’t miss me much. I shall come and 
see you every day. Please, Agatha, may I 
go?” 

There was no resisting those mournful, ap- 
pealing dark eyes. And Agatha gave a sorrow- 
ful assent. 

It was sunset of an intensely warm August 
day that a young girl tripped along the path 
that led from the Chateau d’Reville to the little 
whitewashed cottage of Dame Agatha and 
Pierre Renault. There was an air of grace and 
refinement about the slender figure that would 
have impressed a beholder, even more than 
mere beauty — albeit the face of Magdalena Re- 
nault was very fair to look upon. No one would 
h?tve recognized the little dark-eyed, precocious 
child pf twelve in the. symmetrical, graceful girl 
of sixteen. She has changed, greatly changed, 
since last we saw her. True, she has the same 


130 


Magdalena. 


large, dark, unfathomable eyes, the same silky 
smooth, magnificent black hair ; but the look of 
unchildish wisdom has faded from her face, 
leaving in its stead a certain dreamy air that 
softens her bright, radiant beauty, and fills her 
splendid Syrian eyes with a soft, mystic light. 
Her costume was well 'calculated to show off to 
advantage her slight, graceful figure. She wore 
a robe of soft, white muslin, that fell like a 
fleecy cloud around her. A belt of crimson satin 
confined it at the waist, and a wreath of crimson 
cypress stars shone among her jetty ringlets. In 
one hand she held a light straw hat, swinging 
it coquettishly by the string ; in the other, a 
book, from whose pages she now and then looked 
up to gather a cluster of wild flowers or break 
forth into a gay snatch of a song. 

As she approached the cottage, she saw 
Pierre sitting in the doorway, his brows knit, 
his head leaning on his hand and his whole ap- 
pearance betokening a mind ill at ease. Hasten- 
ing eagerly forward, she greeted him with a 
joyous 

“Good evening, brother Pierre.” 

“ Good evening, Magdalena,” said the young 
man, sulkily, without looking up. 

Magdalena looked at him for a moment with 


Magdalena. 


131 


a half-puzzled air, then, bounding past him with 
the airy lightness of a fawn, she sprang into the 
cottage. 

Dame Agatha was seated in her usual place 
in the chimney corner, filled no longer with 
blazing logs, but with green boughs and fresh 
culled flowers, that filled the tidy room with a 
pleasant perfume. 

“Good evening, mother,” said the maiden, in 
her clear, ringing, joyous tones. 

“ Good even’, my child,” replied the old wo- 
man, quietly, raising her head with a pleasant 
smile. 

“ The count arrived last night,” said Magda- 
lena, eagerly, “and brought me the most beau- 
tiful things, all the way from Paris. A marble 
statue of our Lady, a pearl rosary, a necklace, and 
diamond cross, a pair of ruby earrings, a ” 

“ Has his handsome young nephew arrived ?” 
said Agatha, with a sly smile. 

The bloom on Magdalena’s cheek perceptibly 
deepened, but she laughed, and answered : 

“ Oh, yes ; I forgot to tell you. Look — he 
gave me this,” and she held out her hand to 
display a magnificent diamond ring. “ Oh, I do 
love him so,” and her cheeks flushed with the 
fervor with which she spoke, 


132 Magdalena. 

"No doubt,” said Pierre, bitterly, “and I 
wonder he allows his lady-love, Mademoiselle 
Magdalena, the fine lady of the chateau, to visit 
the poor fisherman, or, perhaps, I should say, 
wrecker’s hut.” 

“ Pierre, you are cruel,” said Magdalena, re- 
proachfully. “ You know I always, always shall 
love you, and my good mother, Agatha.” 

“ How you do talk, Pierre,” said his mother, 
casting an angry glance toward him. “You 
must forgive him, Magdalena. Pie loves you 
so well that he is jealous of everyone on whom 
you look.” 

Magdalena made no reply, but walked un- 
easily to the window and looked forth. Away 
as far as the eye could reach, spread a broad, 
blue, motionless expanse of water, dotted here 
and there with the boats of the fishermen, rest- 
ing lightly as birds on the polished surface, 
their white sails gleaming like snowflakes in 
the distance. All was peace and beauty, and 
the contrast brought forcibly to her mind that 
eventful night, six years ago, when she had 
stood by that same window to watch the storm. 

“ I must return to the chateau, Agatha,” she 
said, after a pause. “Good-bye, I will see you 
*again to-morrow,” 


Magdalena . 133 

“Good-bye, my child/’ said the old woman, 
gazing fondly after her. 

Pierre still sat on the door-step, his face hid- 
den in his hands. Magdalena touched him on 
the shoulder but he did not move. 

“Pierre,” she said, softly, a tender look of 
pity gathering in her eyes. 

“ Well,” he said, hoarsely, removing his hands 
and looking, up. 

His face, now that Magdalena had a full view 
of it, was very pale, his eyes sunken, his lips 
bitterly compressed, as if he despised himself 
for the agitation he showed. 

“ Oh, Pierre ! ” said Magdalena earnestly, 
“ why will you distress yourself thus ? What is 
it that has changed you so of late ? ” 

“And is it I alone that am changed?” de- 
manded the youth, almost fiercely; “ Can you 
say you are not changed ? Where is the warm- 
hearted, impulsive Magdalena I once loved ? 
The fine, richly-dressed, proud young lady be- 
fore me, who loves so well the fair-haired, blue- 
eyed young count, bears no resemblance to her. 
Away, Magdalena ! and leave us in peace. Do 
not come here again with your sweet smiles and 
honeyed words, to laugh at our rough, uncouth 
ways, within the stately walls of the chateau,” 


134 


Magdalena. 


“ Pierre ! ” 

He looked up. Her slight form was drawn 
up to its full height, her cheeks glowing, her 
eyes flashing with mingled sorrow, indignation 
and surprise. How beautiful, how noble she 
looked ! All the fond dreams of his youth had 
perished. Another had won her heart. He 
bowed his face in his hands, and groaned 
aloud. 

All her indignation vanished. Sorrow for 
him she loved as a brother was now her sole 
feeling. She stooped down, and laying her 
small, white hands on his, said, gently and 
earnestly : 

“ Dear Pierre, though I cannot love you as 
you wish, though I cannot be your wife, yet I 
shall always, while I live, love you as a dear, 
dear brother. Will not that do, Pierre ? Tell 
me you will love me as a sister.” 

He raised his head and smiled — a strange, 
bitter smile ; then, without a word, he arose 
arid walked rapidly away. 

And slowly and sadly Magdalena turned to- 
ward the chateau. So absorbed was she in her 
own reflections that she heard not a light, firm 
step behind her, until a musical voice by her 
side exclaimed : 


Magdalena. 135 

v- — - ■ ■ 1 ■ ■■ 

“ Of what are you thinking so profoundly, ma 
belle ?' 1 

“ Oh, Adolphe ! is it you — how you startled 
me !” said Magdalena, looking up at the hand- 
some, dashing-looking youth who had joined 
her ; “ but you always are sure to come when I 
don’t want you,” she added, pouting. 

“ Ma foil how pert you grow, Magdalena ! I 
shall be revenged on you for that saucy speech,” 
said Adolphe, laughing, whereupon he was re- 
venged on the spot, and Magdalena, with very 
red cheeks and extremely indignant air, entered 
the chateau, declaring that Adolphe was “ ex- 
tremely impertinent.” 

Another year passed, and France, wild with 
enthusiasm, had rallied under the banner of 
Napoleon Le Grand. The excitement had even 
reached the quiet little village on the coast. 
Adolphe pleaded with his uncle to be permitted 
to join the army, but the old man would not 
consent. The wreckers and smugglers were in- 
creasing and committing fearful depredations. 
Their leader, Pierre Renault, was the terror of 
the coast. In vain they attempted to capture 
him. He laughed at their efforts, and became 
bolder still. To subdue him, therefore, the old 
man urged his nephew to remain. 


136 


Magdalena. 


It was a clear, bright moonlight night that 
Pierre Renault, the “ Scourge of the Coast,” as 
he was called, lay stretched at full length on 
the hard floor of a natural grotto or cavern. At 
his feet spread the beach, the white sand and 
glittering pebbles ^flashing like silver beneath 
the moon’s rays. Farther out the glittering 
waves flashed and danced in the pale light, 
while ever and anon a sweet strain of music 
from some passing boat would float softly on 
the still night air. The bright rays stole through 
the entrance of the cavern, and fell softly and 
sweetly as a child’s kiss on the pale, haggard 
faces of the wreckers. 

Suddenly a shadow clouded the moonbeams. 
A dark, lithe figure flitted in and stood before 
him. 

“ Magdalena ! ” 

“Yes, Pierre. Oh, Pierre, Pierre!” and as 
her eyes fell on that careworn, faded face — 
so different from the bright, joyous Pierre she 
had once known, she covered her face with her 
hands and sobbed aloud. 

Since the evening they had parted at the cot- 
tage they had not met. Pierre had carefully 
shunned her, and she had sought him in vain. 
Accident alone had discovered his hiding place 
at last. 


Magdalena. 


137 


He gazed upon her now with a strange, hard 
expression, and said, in a tone of bitter sor- 
row : 

“Too late, Magdalena! too late to weep for 
me ; your tears cannot wash my guilt away.” 

She took her hands down from her face, and, 
kneeling beside him, said earnestly : 

“No, Pierre, my tears cannot — would to 
God they could — but your repentance can. Oh, 
Pierre ! dear Pierre, will you not cease this wild 
life you lead. Night after night I lie awake to 
think of you. Oh, Pierre, if you should be 
captured, what would be your fate?” 

“ Death, I suppose, and I deserve it, Magda- 
lena. But what matter ? My mother is dead, 
and there is no one else in the world to care a 
straw if I am hung like a dog.” And, involun- 
tarily, he drew his breath in hard. 

“No one else to care. Oh, Pierre ! ” 

“Don’t look at me so, Magdalena,” he ex- 
claimed, starting to his feet, and pacing up and 
down hurriedly with such sad, reproachful eyes. 
“ Why have you not left me to my fate ? Go, 
Magdalena. Think of me no more ; I am not 
worthy. But when you are the happy bride of 
Adolphe D’Reville, and I am sleeping in a 
felon’s grave, you may sometimes bestow a 


138 


Magdalena . 


pleasing thought upon him who loved you bet- 
ter than life itself. Nay, weep not for me, I 
am unworthy.” 

“ Pierre,” she said, laying her small, white, 
jeweled hands on his, and looking up earnestly 
in his face, “ I shall never be the bride of 
Adolphe D’Reville.” 

“ Magdalena ! ” 

“ I speak truth, Pierre. I know I have been 
the cause of your sufferings and guilt, and it is 
my duty to make atonement. Pierre, if you 
will promise me to reform I shall never wed at 
all.” 

“ What can I do, Magdalena ? ” he said, gloom- 
ily. 

“You can become an upright man once more, 
Pierre ; you can win for yourself a name I shall 
no longer blush to hear ; you can become a hero 
— an honor to your country — a terror to her 
enemies; you can become a soldier, Pierre. 
Go — glory beckons you on. Go — follow Na- 
poleon. Go — become a man once more — a 
man such as God intended you to be — free and 
fearless, fearing nothing on earth but sin.” 

How her eyes blazed and her cheeks burned. 
Her slender figure seemed to tower upright, in- 
stinct with the very spirit of heroism, 


Magdalena. 


139 


“And you, Magdalena?” 

The question brought her to herself again. 
The vivid light in her eyes died out, the flush 
faded from her cheek, and she shivered con- 
vulsively. It passed in a moment, and when 
she again spoke, her voice sunk to a cold, level, 
passionless monotone. 

“ I shall go to Paris. Fear not for me. I am 
young and hopeful, and the world is before me.” 

“And a dreary, lonely life, also, in that great 
city, far away from all you love. And, Magda- 
lena,” he added, changing his tone suddenly, 
“they will never consent to your leaving the 
chateau.” 

“ I shall not ask them, Pierre.” 

“ You will not ?” 

“ No ; listen. To-night, when all are asleep, 
I will go. They will never hear of me again, 
and will soon forget me.” 

It seemed like a cry — the last words wrung 
from her heart. She covered her face with her 
hands, and for a moment was silent. 

“And Adolphe, Magdalena ; you love him ; 
do you wish he^ too, may forget you?” said 
Pierre, regarding her attentively. 

“ Oh, Pierre, hush ! ” said Magdalena, in a 
voice of such quick, living agony, that he shrank 


1 40 Magdalena. 

back almost awed. She had crouched on the 
floor, her face buried in her hands, quivering 
convulsively. At length she arose. Every trace 
of passion and sorrow had gone. A cold, pale 
face, strangely glittering eyes, a low, calm, even 
voice was all. 

“ Do you promise me, Pierre ? ” 

“ I do, Magdalena. May God forever bless 
you. You are my good angel, to come thus 
and redeem me from sin. To-morrow a new 
recruit shall have joined the ranks of our nation’s 
deliverer. And, Magdalena, all that you have 
said I will be, or my bones shall fill a soldier’s 
grave.” 

He drew himself up, his tall form erect, his 
head thrown proudly back, his dark eyes flash- 
ing with enthusiasm. Magdalena took his hand, 
pressed it for a moment between both of hers, 
and — he was alone. 

One hour later a young man entered the great 
gate of the chateau. All around was profoundly 
silent. The moon shone down from a cloudless 
sky with a peaceful smile, as if watching the 
slumbers of its inmates. 

Presently the heavy hall door was thrown 
open and a young girl stepped forth. A look 
of fixed, rigid despair was stamped on the fair 


Magdalena . 


141 

young face, but with it blended a look of lofty 
resignation. She crossed the threshold; the 
door closed gently behind her. It seemed like 
shutting her out forever from all she held dear 
on earth. With a stifled sob she sank bn the 
cold door-stone, and bowed her face in her 
hands. 

“ Magdalena,” said a voice close by her 
side. 

She looked up. 

“ Well, Pierre,” she said, huskily. 

“ Magdalena, this last great trial shall not be 
required of you. Remain here. You are not fit 
to battle with the cold world. I shall go alone. 
Remain here, and be happy. I shall come be- 
tween you and happiness no more.” 

“ Oh, Pierre ! ” 

But he was gone — she was alone. 

* * * *x- * * 

“A letter from Adolphe, mon enfante .” 

“ From Adolphe? Oh, my dear guardian! 
when — where ?” 

“ Here, Miss Impertinence,” said the old man, 
smiling at her eagerness, and handing her the 
letter; “read it aloud, Magdalena, my eyes are 
not so good as they were wont to be.” 


142 


Magdalena. 


Trembling with eagerness, Magdalena took 
the letter and read : 

My Dear Uncle: — Safe and sound in body 
and limbs, though far from sound in heart, 
thanks to Magdalena. Three battles have been 
fought and three glorious victories we have won 
since I last wrote to you. “We come, we see, 
we conquer.” I have been promoted to the 
rank of captain, though, but for one of my 
regiment, I should have been in my grave now. 
This man is a private soldier known only as 
Pierre. Thrice he has saved my life. At every 
battle he' has performed prodigies of valor, and 
will soon be promoted. In a few months more 
I shall be at home to claim the hand of Mag- 
dalena. 

Inclosed you will find a letter for her. In 
haste. Adolphe. 

Pierre. A rapturous prayer of thanksgiving 
arose in Magdalena’s heart as she read. He had 
kept his promise. 

****** 

Never looked the sun on a fairer scene. 
Flowers, flowers everywhere — in the streets, 
around the church, and wreathing the brows of 
fair young maidens. The village bells were 
ringing joyful peals, music swelled from the 


Magdalena. 


143 


organ, and “ Gloria in excelsis ” rang triumph* 
antly through the church as the bridal party 
entered. 

How lovely Magdalena looked in her snowy 
bridal robes; how handsome, and happy, and 
proud, the young Count D’Reville. Never was 
there a merrier bridal. 

The service began—ended — and Magdalena 
arose from her knees — a countess. 

“ Nothing is wanting now to complete my 
happiness, but the presence of my friend M. 
Pierre,” softly whispered the young count to 
his bride, as he led her down the aisle. 

“He is here, then,” said a deep, mellow 
voice by his side, a voice Magdalena joyfully 
recognized, and a tall, dark, singularly hand- 
some man, of lofty bearing and military aspect, 
stepped forward. 

“.Pierre!” exclaimed both bride and bride- 
groom joyfully. 

“Colonel Pierre,” said the soldier, gravely 
correcting them. 

“ My wife, Countess D’Reville.” 

Magdalena’s eyes filled with joyful light, as 
she embraced the fair, girlish creature who hung 
so lovingly on her husband’s arm — a proud, 


144 Magdalena. 

high-born lady, who had gladly wedded the gal- 
lant Col. Pierre. 

And now we will leave them, their feelings 
being (as novelists say) better imagined than 
described. 


THE ISLAND WITCH. 


Our witches are no longer old 

And wrinkled beldames. Satan sold 

But young, and gay, and joyous creatures. 

With the heart’s sunshine on their features, 

Their sorcery — the light which dances 
When the raised lid unveils its glances. 

Whittier. 

“ Good news, girls,” said Cousin Tom, enter- 
ing the sitting room, where Minnie and I were 
sewing, one bright June afternoon. 

“ What now?” said Minnie, raising her head 
with a smile. 

“ Were going to have a picnic to-morrow — 
a tip-top, slap up affair — none of your common 
sugar-candy things, you know, but a regular 
hangup!” and Tom lit a cigar, which he al- 
ways did when he wanted to provoke me, and 
blew the first whiff down my throat, nearly 
strangling me. Pretty lady reader, did you 
ever have a cousin six feet high, who smoked 
cigars ? If you didn’t, you are lucky. 


r46 


The Island Witch. 


But on the present occasion his news was too 
good for me to get angry with him, so I merely 
said : 

“ That is good news. Where’s the picnic 
going to be, Tom ?” 

“ Over on Witch Island,” said Tom, whom I 
could faintly discern through a cloud of smoke ; 
“we’re going in boats.” 

“ Witch Island ! what a horrid name ! ” said 
I ; “and who all are going, Tom ?” 

“ Oh, all the 4 aristocracks,’ as Polly says ; 
Dick and Minnie, and you and wild Kitty, and 
Mattie, and all the rest. And — oh, puss! I 
forgot to tell you, somebody else is coming ; a 
certain tall, dark young gentleman — Dr. Clare, 
he ” 

Tom dodged in time to avoid the book I 
sent flying after him, and with a mischievous 
laugh ran down stairs and joined Dick. 

Scarcely had he gone when Kitty Glen came 
bounding in, her face perfectly radiant with 
delight. 

“ Oh, girls, won’t it be nice!” she exclaimed, 
“ Tom’s told you, I suppose. We’ll have a grand 
time, I can tell you. They’ve got such a nice 
big boat to take us over in, and oh, such splen- 
did swings ; you can go up so high on them 


The Island Witch . 


147 


that your heels will be lost in the clouds, and 
the rest of you will be nearly invisible to the 
naked eye. You needn’t look so incredulous, 
for it’s true ; ’tis, ’pon my word. And then 
everybody can get so delightfully freckled, or 
tanned, or burned, or done brown, each one to 
her taste, you know. And who knows but we 
may see the witch herself. Oh, my ! wouldn’t 
that be nice ! wouldn’t it be splendor able ? ” and 
Kitty, having talked herself out of breath, 
settled down with alarming suddenness in the 
middle of the floor. 

But alas! for Kitty’s expectations. Morning 
came, and with it Mattie alone ; Kitty was 
forced to stay at home, with oh ! such an awful 
toothache — a toothache that ached so dread- 
fully that Kitty vowed she would go to Dr. 
Clare and get every tooth in her head pulled 
before our return. 

“ What can’t be cured must be endured/ is 
an excellent proverb ; so, finding we could do 
nothing to ease Kitty — on the contrary, she in- 
sisted we made her worse- -we were obliged to 
leave her, and in half an hour we were all safely 
landed on Witch Island. 

Was there ever such a beautiful island in the 
world before ! I wish I could describe it to 


148 


The Island Witch. 


you, but I am inadequate to the task, so I can 
only say it was as beautiful as cool, dark, shady 
woods, sunny, smooth, green fields, red with 
berries and flowers, and dashing, glittering crys- 
tal streams could make it. 

The day wore pleasantly on, and noon ap- 
proached. Our party had scattered in every 
direction, some wandering in pairs through the 
trees, and some gathering berries, while I and — 
and — I suppose I may as well tell it — Dr. Clare 
seated ourselves on a rising hillock that com- 
manded a fine view of the sea, when, after a 
while, we were joined by Tom and Mattie. 

“ Mattie,” said I, “is there no legend or story 
connected with this island, or why has it re- 
ceived its singular name ? You ought to know, 
as you’ve lived here all your life.” 

“ Well,” said Mattie, “ there is a story told of 
this island, but I am inclined to think it is all 
nonsense. However, if you wish, I will tell it 
to you.” 

We all answered we did wish it, and Mattie 
began : 

“Many years ago, tradition saith, this island 
was inhabited by Indians. Here in this lovely 
spot they dwelt in peace, in good will to all 
men. At last the whites discovered their home, 


The Island Witch. 


149 


which they considered too fair and fruitful to 
be held by its owners longer, so the settlers 
came here and drove them hence. 

“ All but one. One old woman, whose hus- 
band and sons had been slain, remained. In 
vain they searched for her ; it seemed as if she 
had the power to render herself invisible ; while 
they were searching for her in one spot, she 
was committing all sorts of depredations in 
another. She seemed omnipresent ; take what 
precautions they would, she still found means to 
annoy and harass them. Gradually they grew 
to believe she was something more than mortal, 
and at length the superstitious people quitted 
the island altogether. It is said she still appears 
here, though I have been here fifty times and 
have never seen her. I 

A shriek wild with dismay, a shriek that 
made us spring to our feet in horror, broke 
upon our ears, and half a dozen girls came flying 
towards us with the speed that terror alone can 
give, screaming wildly with fear. 

“What is the matter? what is the matter?” 
we all exclaimed simultaneously, and “ Oh, 
what in the world is the matter ? ” cried the 
rest of our party, hurrying up. 

“ The witch ! the witch ! it is the dreadful 


The Island Witch. 


*50 

Witch'of the Isle ! ” replied the frightened girls, 
with one accord. “ Oh, look ! look ! there she 
comes ! ” 

We all turned with one accoi'd toward the 
spot to which they pointed, and beheld a strange 
sight certainly. A little old woman, nearly bent 
double, who supported herself on a staff, came 
hobbling toward us. A large, queer-looking 
old bonnet, resembling a modern coal-scuttle, 
both in size and shape, adorned her venerable 
head. A mass of coarse grizzly gray, inter- 
spersed with black, showing what the original 
color had been, was frizzled in such an extra- 
ordinary manner over her face as nearly to 
conceal it, and which caused Tom to remark 
that he thought it would be an act of charity 
for somebody to lend the old lady a comb. 
Her face, where we could see it for hair, was 
tanned almost black. Her dress was a queer 
mixture of rags tied together, while a cloak of 
extravagant length trailed behind her, catching in 
everything as she went along, in a manner that 
must have been very annoying to her witch-ship. 

“ Don’t be frightened, pretty ladies, the Witch 
of the Isle only wants to tell your fortunes, 8 * 
said the little old woman, in a shrill, cracked 
treble voice, as she came up. 


The Island Witch. 


Country girls are not so easily frightened as 
their city sisters, so while I was looking anx- 
iously around for a nice place to faint, the rest, 
encouraged by the example of Tom, Dick and 
Dr. Clare., gathered around her, amid an extra 
amount of giggling and blushing, to have their 
fortunes told. 

“Here, kitten, where are you?” called Tom. 
when most of them had learned their destinies. 

“ Here she is — hiding behind Minnie,” cho- 
rused half a dozen voices ; and I was dragged 
unceremoniously into the presence of the witch. 

“ Here, tell this young lady’s fortune, marm,” 
said Tom, pushing me forward. 

“ Marm ” took my hand accordingly, and look- 
ing earnestly down into the palm, proceeded 
to set forth my future destiny, which, desr 
reader, you must excuse my not telling you, as 
I’m really too bashful to do it. I am sure I 
was very silly to blush so, but she would look 
so often at Dr. Clare, and told so much 
nonsense, that I positively couldn’t help it. 

“Now, then, it’s your turn,” said I to Tom., 
when the sybil had resigned my hand. 

“All right — here goes,” said Tom, promptly 
extending his hand, like a school-boy about to 
be slapped. “ Pitch into it, marm.” 


The Island Witch. 


i5 2 

Thus adjured, the fortune teller quietly pro 
ceeded to “ pitch into it.” After examining the 
lines a moment, she raised her eyes to his face, 
and said, solemnly : 

“ You’re in love ! ” 

Tom sighed like a pair of bellows, and 
glanced meekly at Mattie ; there was no deny- 
ing the melancholy fact. 

Again the sybil looked down, but, before she 
could deliver another startling truth, a vigorous 
voice shouted : 

“ Hillo, there ! hillo ! Tie boat’s adrift ! 

A glance at the tide, which was rising rapidly, 
showed us the boat unconcernedly sailing away, 
and, not wishing to be obliged to swim back, 
the whole party, male and female, made a rush 
for the culprit, which, with some difficulty and 
considerable wetting, was captured and tied tri- 
umphantly to a tree. This feat performed, we 
hurried back, but the fortune-teller was gone. 
In vain we searched the woods, the witch was 
nowhere visible. 

At last we gave up the search, and seated 
ourselves on the grass, to discuss and laugh over 
the various fortunes told. Tom teased me un- 
mercifully about something the old woman had 
said concerning me passing my life manufact- 


The Island IVitch. 


x 53 


uring pills and selling physic, at which Dr. 
Clare laughed, and I got as red* in the face as 
a full-blown poppy. 

Evening drew on, and not wishing to remain 
in a place inhabited by witches after dark, we 
gathered our baskets, empty enough now, seat- 
ed ourselves in the boat, and rowed slowly 
homeward. 

How well I remember that sail home from 
Witch Island. Tom sang the “Canadian Boat 
Song,” and every time he would get to “ Row, 
brothers, row,” he would give the boat such a 
desperate jerk, as nearly to upset all on his side 
out, thus keeping the girls in a constant state of 
commotion. Dr. Clare sang, “ Susie, Come 
with Me,” at which every lady looked at me and 
laughed, and I felt terribly conscious. Then 
Dick sang the “ King of the Cannibal Islands,” 
with, oh, dear me ! such an awful, jaw-breaking 
chorus ending, as nearly as I can recollect 
with — 

“ Hokee pokee, wongee fum, 

Kee ku callibu cum, 

Flibbidee, fjabbadee, chingring wum — > 

The King of the Cannibal Islands." 

And, while he sang, he kept nodding his h 
and twisting himself into all sorts of sh-p 


154 


The Island Witch. 


and making such ludicrous faces, that I rolled 
over in the bottom of the boat, convulsed with 
laughter, until Tom declared that, if we didn’t 
stop, we’d upset the boat, and spill all hands in 
the water. So, in dread of such an awful catas- 
trophe, we all settled quietly down, until we 
landed. 

Our first care, after landing, was to go and 
see Kitty, whom we found as “ well as could be 
expected ” under the circumstances. I enter- 
tained her with an account of our adventures on 
the island, and bitterly bewailed the unfortunate 
tooth, that wouldn’t let her come. Kitty said 
little, but there was a queer, quizzical smile on 
her face, and the bright eyes were actually 
flashing with suppressed mischief, under their 
long lashes. 

That evening we were all assembled in the 
big parlor at Uncle John’s, chatting and talking 
over the events of the day. Tom was telling 
Aunt Hatty about the witch, with a great many 
additions of his own, which caused aunty to de- 
clare, “ she’d bin skeered to death,” when the 
door opened, and, to our surprise and con- 
sternation, the identical Witch- of the Isle en- 
tered, 

“ Speak of the devil, and he’ll appear,” mut- 


The Island Witch. 


*55 

tered Tom, looking as if he fancied his eyes 
were laboring under a delusion. 

But it was no delusion — there she was ; big 
bonnet, frizzled head, ragged dress, and long 
cloak. We all jumped to our feet in dismay, 
one young lady, with a shrill, piping scream, 
flung herself into Dick’s arms, upon which that 
modest young gentleman turned all sorts of 
colors. Aunt Hatty, with a half-suppressed 
yell, clapped a bottle of camphor to her nose, 
and fell back in her chair, completely ex- 
tinguished. And still the little old woman 
stood there, in the middle of the floor, looking 
as cool as a cucumber. 

“ Who the deuce are you ? ” exclaimed Tom ; 
“ by Jove, I’ll soon know ; ” and before the little 
witch, who had turned to fly, could reach the 
door, he had her in his arms. The big bonnet 
and wig fell to the floor, disclosing the golden 
curls, malicious blue eyes, and laughing face 
of — Kitty Glen. 

« Eh ! how ! what ! no ! yes — Kitty, why 
what the devil?” began. Tom, whose under jaw 
had dropped into a graceful attitude of amaze- 
ment. 

“ For shame, Tom ! how dare you say such 
naughty words, sir ! Let me go 1 Mattie ’ll be 


The Island Witch. 


156 

jealous,” said Kitty, coolly extricating herself 
from his arms, a'nd quietly taking a chair. 

“ And so, it was you all the time,” said I, 
dreadfully disappointed ; “and I really thought, 
all the time, it was a witch. I’ll never forgive 
you, Kitty Glen — so there ! ” ' 

“ La ! now, Susie, you wouldn’t be so cruel,” 
said Kitty, looking very much unconcerned. 

“It was clevedy done, by George,” said 
Tom, laughing. “ Come, Kitty, have mercy on 
us, and tell us how you did it.” 

“ Oh, it wasn’t the least trouble,” said Kitty 
“You see, I had the dress and cloak, and bom 
net and wig ready, two or three days before, 

and the plan made up ” 

“ So the toothache was all a sham,” said Tom. 
“Go on, Kitty, you’re rapidly improving.” 

“ No wonder I’d improve with you around,” 
retorted Kitty. “ Well, you know, I got papa’s 
skiff, and, as I am a capital rower, I easily got 
across, and landed on the side of the island, op-' 
posite to where you were. A little walnut 
bark made my face a nice mahogany color, and 
seizing a favorable opportunity, I cut the 
painter of your boat, so that when the tide 
would rise, she would drift out, which, I rightly 
conjectured, would send the whole of you to 


The Island Witch. 


157 


the beach. Then I appeared among you, and 
everything turned out just as I expected it 
would. While you all were breaking your 
necks, running to the beach, I just slipped 
away, got into my boat, and rowed home. By 
taking a roundabout direction I kept out of 
your sight, and so, while you were tearing your 
eyes out and the clothes off your backs, looking 
for me in the woods, I was safe at home, 
laughing at you all.” 

“ Well, it was a clever trick, and no mis- 
take,” said Tom, highly delighted. “ Why, 
Kitten, I’d no idea you were so smart.” 

“ Hadn’t you, indeed ? ” said Kitty. “ Lor, 
Tom ! you haven’t seen half my smartness yet. 
I expect I was made to keep you all from dying 
of torpor. Won’t I make a nice sister-in-law, 
eh, Tom? Well, good night; I give you all 
my blessing !” said Kitty, spreading out her 
hands as if she was going to warm them ; and, 
with this solemn benediction, she disappeared, - 
and was half way home before Dick, who hur- 
ried after her, could reach the door. 



TWO • NOTABLE • NOVELS. 

Paper Cover, 25 Cents Each. 


A Yellow Aster, 

“ IOTA.” 

“Unmistakably the book of the hour. Its own transcendent 
merits were sufficient to insure its being talked about. No 
Aubrey Tanqueray need debar his daughter from reading ‘A 
YELLOW ASTER’ through fear lest the white robes of her 
purity may become a little dusty at the hem. Bold the book is 
and daring alike in conception 'and treatment, but its atmos- 
phere is sweet and pure as well as invigorating. The dialogue 
is sparkling, and is irradiated ever and anon by bright flashes of 
humor ; and it abounds in fine passages. ‘A YELLOW ASTER’ 
must leap into wide and ever wider popularity .” — Weekly Sun. 



BY BEATRICE H&HHRbEH- 


“It is a sad book — one to cry over, and yet to rejoice about, 
too. Many will be better because it has been written. 

“Another discovery in connection with this powerful little 
book — for in pages it does not amount to much — is not so grate- 
ful, and that is that a book with a great moral purpose may be 
fascinating. This is something which no one believes or likes 
to believe possible ; yet there can be no question that the author 
shows that an insignificant person in the world may, by simple 
sweetness of nature, wholly reform and reconstruct her own 
little world, ” — Review. 

Mailed to any address on receipt of price by 

J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company, 

57 Rose Street, New York, 


Lock Box 2767, 


TOD CEBTAIBL? INTEND TO BUILD? 

Everyone does on some scale or other sooner or later, fact is they are counted 
miserable beings who do not expect to do so some time in their lives. 

tVhen you do build be wise in time and not when it is too late, after paying 
dearly for experience. Get the new book of designs for 1 893. None of them 
ever before published. Dont buy a book five years old. 



The Latest and Best Book on Building, just out is 

Palliser’s Model Dwellings, 

tdOa-j 

It is worth $10.00, 
hut it costs only $i.oo. 




A complete work on Building by Palliser, Palliser & Co., the best known archi- 
tects in the U. S., and eminent designersand writers on common-sense, practi- • 
cal and convenient dwelling houses for industrial Americans, homes for co- 
operative builders, investors and everybody desiring to build, own or live in 
Model Homes of Low and Medium Cost. 

This nevr book is 11 x 14 inches in size, and contains large illustrated p ! ans 
and views of the above house and 145 others of every kind, description and 
style dwellings, ranging in cost of construction and completion frum $101) to 
$0,000, also a model city house for 24 families, costing $15,000, giving with each 
full descriptions, complete dimensions and sizes of rooms, &c., the Actual- 
Proven Guaranteed Cost, places where erected, many of the most pop 
ular built several times, with changes, in different localities, together with 
names of owners, names and addresses of builders, which does away with 
ridiculous estimating or rather guessing of the cost to build. 

The descriptive letter-press and reading matter throughout this book, giving 
very valuable information and practical suggestions on every question that 
can arise in building, would alone fill an ordinary book of 450 pages. Also, 
Specifications and form of Building Contract. 

p — y Z IT IS A PLEASURE TO BUILD. 

Free consultation given to purchasers building and very low prices for all 
architects’ complete services connected therewith. This elegant work, which 
contains 128 pages, is far superior to the $15 portfolios and premium books on 
the market (in fact, there is nothing that pan compare with it at any price), 
will be sent to any address, in paper cover, by mail, post-paid, on receipt of 
only $1.00, or bound in cloth on receipt of 882. OO. Address all orders to 

J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

1’. o. Box, 2707. 57 Rose Street, New York 


BRE YOU MARRIED? 

If you are at all interested in the subject of Marriage, whether you are marries 
or ever expect to be, you should have a -opy of the new and valuable book entitled 


The Science of a New Life. 


By JOHN COWAN, M.D. 

A Boob Well Worth I*os*cg*iiiK by Every Thoughtful 
Ulan and Woman. 

This valuable book has received the highest testimonials and commendations 
from leading medical and religious critics ; has been heartily endorsed by all the 
leading philanthropists, and recommended to every well-wisher of the human race. 


TO ALL WHO ARE MARRIED 

Or are contemplating marriage, it will give information worth HUNDREDS OP 
DOLLARS, besides conferring a lasting benefit, not only upon them, but upon their 
children. Every thinking man and woman should study this work. Any person 
desiriDg to know more about the book before purchasing it, may send to us for our 
36-page descriptive circular, giving ful 1 and complete table of contents. It will be 
sent t ree by mail to any address. The following is the table of contents : 

Marriage and its Advantages ; Age at which to Marry ; The Law of Choice ; 
jOve Analyzed ; Qualities th^ Man Should Avoid in Choosing ; Qualities the Woman 
Should Avoid in Choosing ; The Anatomy and Physiology of Generation in Women ; 
The Anatomy and Physiology of Generation in Man; Amativeness— its Use and 
Abuse; The Prevention of Conception; The Law of Continence; Children— Their 
Desirability ; The Law of Genius ; The Conception of a New Life ; The Physiology 
of Inter- Uterine Growth ; Period of Gestative Influence ; Pregnancy— Its Signs and 
Duration ; Disorders of Pregnancy ; Confinement ; Management of Mother and 
Child after Delivery ; Period of Nursing Influence ; Foeticide ; Diseases Peculiar to 
Women ; Diseases Peculiar to Men ; Masturbation ; Sterility and Impotence ; 
Subjects of which More Might be Said ; A Happy Married Life— How Secured. 


COMMENDATIONS. 


“In a careful examination of Dr. Cowan’s SCIENCE OF A NEW LIFE, I am 
prepared to give it my very cordial approval. It deserves to be in every family, 
and read and pondered, as closely relating to the highest moral and physical well- 
being of all its members.” William Lloyd Garrison. 

“ as it is easier to generate a race of healthy men and women than to regener, 
ate the diseased and discordant humanity we now have, I heartily recommend the 
study of THE SCIENCE OF A NEW’ LIFE to every father and mother in the 
land. Elizajeth Cady Stanton. 

“It seems to us to be one of 1 he wisest, and purest, and most helpful of those 
Books which have been written in recent years, with the intention of teaching Men 
a id Women the Truths about their Bodies, which are of peculiar importance to 

the morals of Society No one can begin to imagine the misery that has 

come upon the human family solely through ignorance upon this subject.” 

The Christian Union. 


The hook is a handsome 8VO, and contains over 400 PAGES, with more than 100 
ILLUSTRATIONS, and is sold at the following PRICES-ENGLISH CLOTH, 
BEVELED BOARDS. GILT SIDE AND BACK, 83 00; LEATHER, SPRINKLED 
EDGES, $3.50; HALF TURKEY MOROCCO, MARBLED EDGES, GILT BACK, 
$4.00. Sent by mail, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price. 

If after reading the above, you wish to get a copy of the book, send us the 
money by post-office order or registered letter, and we will send it by return mail 

securely sealed and free from observation. , . .. , 

Agents wanted to whom we offer liberal terms. Send for our confidential 
terms, and state what territory you can work to advantage. 

Address all orders and applications for an agency to 


J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
p. o. Box, 2707. 57 Rose Street, New York, 


A $10.00 BOOK FOB. $2.50i 


MOORE’S 



Containing over One Million Industrial Facts, 

CALCULATIONS, PROCESSES, TRADE SECRETS, RULES, LEGAL/ 
ITEMS, BUSINESS FORMS, etc., ill every Occupation, from th» 
Household to the Manufactory. 

\ 

A "work of unequaled utility to every Mechanic, Farmer, Merchant, 
Business Man, Professional Gentleman, and Householder, as it embraces 
the main points in over 200 Trades and Occupations. It contains 1016 
pages and over 500 illustrations. 

The following synopsis gives some idea of the value and scope of tlia 
work. The contents are as follows: 

Part 1.— Bread, Cracker. Pastry and Cake Baking, Domestic Cooking, eto. 
Part 2.— For Farmers, Horse Shoers, Stock Owners, Dee Keepers, etc. 

Part 3.— For Lumbermen, Carpenters. Builders. Contractors, Mill Owners, 
Shipbuilders, Ship Owners, Freighters, Navigators, Quarrymeu, 
Merchants and Business Men generally. 

Part 4.— Natural Mechanical and Scientific Facts. 

Part 5.— For Dyers, Clothiers, Bleachers, Hatters, Furriers and Manufac- 
turers. 

Part 6.— Medical Department, for Druggists, Physicians, Dentists, Perfum- 
ers, Barbers, and general Family Use, 

Part 7.— For Grocers, Tobacconists, Confectioners, Saloon Keepers, -Syrups. 

Cordials, lee Creams, Summer Drinks, Domestic Wines, Canned 
Goods, Soaps, etc. 

/art 8.— For Tanners and Curriers, Boot, Shoe, Harness and Rubber Manu- 
facturers, Marble and Ivory Workers, Bookbinders, Anglers, Ti up- 
pers, etc. 

B-Vrt 9.— For Painters, Decorators, Cabinet Makcis. Piano and Organ Man- 
ufacturers, Polishers, Carvers, Gilders, Picture Frame and Art 
Dealers, China Decorators, Potters, Glass Manufacturers, Glass 
Stainers and Gilders, Architects, Masons, Bricklayers, Plasterers, 
Gtucco Workers, K.'ueoiuiners, Slaters, Roofers, etc. 

Part 10.— For Watchmakers, Jewelers, Gold and Silversmiths, Gilders. 

Burnishers, Colorers, Enamelers, Lapidaries, Diamond Cutters. 
Engravers, Die Sinkers, Stencil Cutters, Refiners, Sweepmelters. 
Part 11.— For Engineers, Firemen, Engine Builders, Steam Fitters, Master 
Mechanics, Machinists, Blacksmiths, Cutlers, Locksmiths, Saw, 
Spring, and Safe Manufacturers, Iron and Brass Founders, Mill 
Owners, Miners, etc. 

Part 12 —For Art Workers, Bronzing, Dipping and Lacquering, Brass Fin- 
ishers, Hardware Dealers, numbers, Gas Fitters, Tinman, Japaa- 
ner8, etc. 

Part 13 —For Printers and Publishers. Gas Companies mid Consumers, Gun- 
smiths, Contractors, Quarrymeu, Coal Dealers, Oil Manufacturers, 
Sugar Refiners, Paper Manufacturers, Cotton and Woolen Manu- 
facturers, Cutlers, Needle and File Manufacturers, Metal Smelters, 
etc., etc. 

Part 14. — The Amenities of Life, Useful Advice. 

Part 15.— Tables, etc.. Embracing Useful Calculations in every Business. 

Price in Cloth Binding, $2.50: in Leather Binding, $3.50. Standard Ex- 
port Edition, Cloth Binding, $3.00; in Leather, Lettered Back and Marbled 
Edges, Library jityle, $4.00. 

Sent by mall, postpaid, to any address on receipt of price. Agents 
wanted, to whom we oiler big nay. Address all orders and applications for 
ttr rgency to 

J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

p. o. Box, 2767. 5t jfrose Street, New York, 

LBAg’12 




































. I 














* • 



« Q! 


































. 
































p 


K # 


3 * \ r, lr ** 
































*! 














; 












- 



* » 










